% 


i 


I 


'Colonel  Dujardin  walked  quickly  down  between  the  two  lines,  looking  with  his  fiery 
eye  into  the  men's  eyes  on  his  right."  —  See  page  261. 


WHITE    LIES 


a     ^ODCI. 


By   CHARLES    KEADE. 


UOUSEUOLD   EDITION. 


NEW  YORK: 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

F  R  A  N  K  L  I  X  SQUARE. 

1S77. 


Charles   Reade's  Novels. 


HARPER'S  HOUSEHOLD  EDITION. 

llKistrated.    12mo,   Clotlx 

Hard  Cash. — P^oul  Play. — White  Lies. — Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Long. 
— Griffith  Gaunt. — The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth. — It  is  Never  Too 
Late  to  Mend. — Peg  Woffington,  Christie  Johnstone,  &c. — Put  Your- 
self in  His  Place. — A  Terrible  Temptation. — A  Simpleton  and  Wan- 
dering Heir. — Good  Stories  of  ALin  and  Other  Animals.  Twelve 
vols.,  i2mo.  Cloth,  %\  25  per  vol. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

IS~  Harper  &  Brothers  will  settd  either  0/  the  above  volumes  by  mail,  postage  pre- 
paid,  to  any  part  0/  tlie  United  States  or  Canada,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


^  ^ 


WHITE    LIES, 


CHAPTER  I. 


/ 


TOWARDS  the  close  of  the  last 
centuiy,  the  Bcaron  dc  Bcaure- 
paire  lived  in  the  chateau  of  that 
name  in  Brittany.  His  family  was 
of  prodigious  antiquity.  Seven  suc- 
cessive bai'ons  had  ah-eady  flourished 
on  this  spot  of  France  when  a  young- 
er son  of  the  house  accompanied  his 
neighbor  the  Duke  of  Normandy  in 
his  descent  on  England,  and  was  re- 
warded by  a  grant  of  land,  on  which 
he  dug  a  moat  and  built  a  chateau, 
and  called  it  Beaurepaire  ;  the  worthy 
natives  turned  this  into  Borreper 
without  an  instant's  delay.  Since 
that  day  more  than  twenty  gentle- 
men of  the  same  lineage  had  held  in 
turn  the  original  chateau  and  lands, 
and  handed  them  down  to  their  pres- 
ent lord. 

Thus  rooted  in  his  native  Brittany 
Henri  Lionel  Marie  St.  Quentin  de 
Beaurepaire  was  as  fortunate  as  any 
man  can  be  pronounced  before  he 
dies.  He  liad  health,  rank,  a  good 
income,  a  fair  domain,  a  goodly  house, 
a  loving  wife,  and  two  lovely  young 
daughters  all  veneration  and  affection. 
Two  months  every  year  he  visited 
the  Faubourg  St.  Germain  and  the 
Court.  At  both  every  gentleman  and 
every  lackey  knew  his  name  and  his 
face  ;  his  return  to  Brittany  after  this 
short  absence  was  celebrated  by  a  rus- 
tic /cte. 

Above  all,  Monsieur  de  Beaure- 
paire possessed  that  treasure  of  treas- 
ures, content.  He  hunted  no  heart- 
burns.    Ambition  did  not  tempt  him. 


Why  should  he  listen  to  long  speech- 
es, and  court  the  unworthy,  and  de- 
scend to  intrigue,  for  so  precarious 
and  equivocal  a  prize  as  a  place  in 
the  government,  when  he  could  be 
de  Beaurepaire  without  trouble  or 
loss  of  self  respect  1  Social  ambition 
could  get  little  hold  of  iiim.  Let  par- 
venus give  balls  half  in  doors  half 
out,  and  light  two  thousand  lamps, 
and  waste  their  substance  battling 
and  manoeuvring  for  fashionable  dis- 
tinction ;  he  had  nothing  to  gain  by 
such  foolery,  nothing  to  lose  by  mod- 
est living ;  he  was  the  twenty-ninth 
Baron  of  Beaurepaire.  So  wise,  so 
proud,  so  little  vain,  so  strong  in 
liealth  and  wealth  and  honor,  one 
would  have  said  nothing  less  than  an 
earthquake  could  shake  this  gentle- 
man and  his  house.  Yet  both  were 
shaken,  though  rooted  by  centuries 
to  the  soil. 

But  it  was  by  no  vulgar  earth- 
quake. 

For  years  France  had  bowed  in  si- 
lence beneath  two  galling  burdens  : 
a  selfish  and  corrupt  monarchy,  and 
a  multitudinous,  privileged,  lazy,  and 
oppressive  aristocracy,  by  whom  the 
peasant,  though  in  France  he  is  the 
principal  proprietor  of  the  soil,  was 
handled  like  a  Russian  serf 

Now  when  a  high-spirited  nation 
has  been  long  silent  under  oppression 
—  tremble  oppressors  !  The  shallow 
misunderstand  nations  as  they  do 
men.  They  fear  where  no  fear  is, 
and  play  cribbage  over  a  volcano. 
Such  are  they  who  expect  a  revolt  in 
England  whenever  England  grumbles 


WHITE  LIES. 


lialf  a  note  higlier  than  usual.  They 
do  not  sec  that  she  is  venting  her  ill- 
humor  instead  of  bottling  it,  and  get- 
ting her  grievance  redressed  gradu- 
ally and  safely.  Such  is  the  oUl  lady 
who  pinches  us  when  the  engine  k-ts 
off  its  steam  with  a  mighty  pother. 
Then  it  is  she  fears  an  explosion. 
Such  are  they  who  read  the  frothy 
bombast  of  Italian  Republicans,  and 
fancy  that  nation  of  song,  supersti- 
tion, and  slavery  is  going  to  be  free, — 
is  worthy  to  be  free,  —  has  the  heart 
or  the  brains  or  the  soul  to  be  free. 

Such  were  the  British  ])lacemen, 
and  the  pig-headed  King,  who  read 
the  calm,  business-like,  respectful, 
yet  dignified  and  determined  address 
of  the  American  colonists,  and  ar- 
gued thus :  — 

"What,  they  don't  bluster;  these 
then  are  men  we  can  bully."  * 

Such  were  the  French  placemen, 
who  did  not  see  how  tremendous  the 
danger  to  that  corrupt  government 
and  lawless  aristocracy,  when  an  ar- 
dent people  raised  their  heads,  after 
centuries  of  brooding,  to  avenge  cen- 
turies of  wrong. 

Wc  all  know  this  wonderful  pas- 
sage of  history.  How  the  feeble  king 
was  neither  woman,  nor  man — could 
neither  concede  with  grace  nor  resist 
with  cannon.  How  his  head  fell  at  a 
moment  when  it  was  monstrous  to 
pretend  the  liberties  of  the  nation  ran 
any  risk  from  the  poor  old  cijjher. 
How  the  dregs  of  the  nation  came 
uppermost  and  passed  for  "  the 
people."  How  law,  religion,  com- 
mon sense,  and  humanity  hid  their 
faces,  the  scaffold  streamed  with  in- 
nocent blood,  and  terror  reigned. 

France  was  preyed  on  by  unclean 
beasts,  half  ass,  half  tiger.  They 
made  her  a  bankrupt,  and  they  were 

*  Compare  the  manifestoes  of  Italian  Re- 
publicans with  the  proclamations  and  ad- 
dresses of  the  American  colonists,  —  i.  e. 
comjiare  the  words  of  the  men  of  words  with 
the  words  of  the  men  of  deeds,  —  the  men  who 
fail  with  the  men  who  succeed  ;  it  is  a  lesson 
in  human  nature.  They  differ  as  a  bladder 
from  a  bludjteon,  or  harlequia's  sword  from 
Noll  Cromwell's. 


busy  cutting  her  throat,  as  well  as 
rifling  her  ])ockets,  when  Heaven  sent 
her  a  Man. 

He  drove  the  unclean  beasts  off  her 
sutfering  body,  and  took  her  in  his 
hand,  and  set  her  on  high  among  the 
nations. 

But  ere  the  Hero  came,  —  among 
whose  many  glories  let  this  be  written, 
that  he  was  a  fighting  man,  yet  ended 
civil  slaughter,  —  what  wonder  that 
many  an  honest  man  and  good 
Frenchman  despaired  of  France. 
Among  these  was  M.  de  Beaurepaire. 

These  Republicans  —  murderers  of 
kings,  murderers  of  women,  and  perse- 
cutors of  children  —  were,  in  his  eyes, 
the  most  horrible  monsters  Humanity 
ever  groaned  under. 

He  put  on  black  for  the  King,  and 
received  no  visits.  He  brooded  in  the 
chateau,  and  wrote  and  received  let- 
ters ;  and  these  letters  all  came  and 
went  by  private  hands.  He  felled 
timber.  He  raised  large  sums  of 
money  upon  his  estate.  He  then 
watched  his  opportunity,  and  on  pre- 
tence of  a  journey  disappeared  from 
the  chateau. 

Three  months  after,  a  cavalier, 
dusty  and  pale,  rode  into  the  court- 
yard of  Beaurepaire,  and  asked  to  see 
the  baroness  ;  lie  hung  his  head,  and 
held  out  a  letter.  It  contained  a  few 
sad  words  from  M.  deLarociiejaquelin. 
The  baron  had  just  fallen  in  La 
Vendee,  fighting,  like  liis  ancestors, 
on  the  side  of  the  Crown. 

From  that  hour  till  her  death  the 
baroness  wore  black. 

The  mourner  would  have  been 
arrested,  and  perhaps  beheaded,  but 
for  a  friend,  the  last  in  the  world  on 
whom  the  family  reckoned  for  any 
solid  aid.  Doctor  St.  Aubin  had 
lived  in  the  chateau  twenty  years. 
He  was  a  man  of  science,  and  did  not 
care  a  button  for  money ;  so  he  had 
retired  from  the  practice  of  medicine, 
and  pursued  his  researches  with  ease 
under  the  baron's  roof.  They  all 
loved  him,  and  laughed  at  his  occa- 
sional reveries,  in  the  days  of  pros- 
perity ;  and  now,  in  one  great  crisis, 


WHITE   LIES. 


5 


the  prot^(j^  became  the  protector,  to 
their  iistonishinent  and  his  own.  But 
it  was  an  age  of  ups  and  downs. 
This  amiable  theorist  was  one  of  the 
oldest  verbal  Republicans  in  Europe. 
This  is  the  less  to  be  wondered  at 
that  in  theory  a  Republic  is  the  per- 
fect form  of  government.  It  is  merely 
in  practice  that  it  is  impossible;  it  is 
only  upon  going  off  paper  into  reahty, 
and  trying  actually  to  self-govern  old 
nations,  with  limited  territory  and 
time  to  heat  themselves  wliite  hot 
with  the  fire  of  politics  and  the  bellows 
of  bonibast,  that  the  thing  resolves 
itself  into  moonshine  and  bloodshed, 
—  each  in  indetinite  proportions. 

Doctor  St.  Aubin  had  for  years 
talked  and  written  speculative  Re- 
publicanism. So,  not  knowing  the 
man,  they  assumed  him  to  be  a  Re- 
publican. They  applied  to  him  to 
know  whether  the  baroness  shared 
her  husband's  opinions,  and  he  boldly 
assured  them  she  did  not;  he  added, 
"  She  is  a  pupil  of  mine."  On  this 
audacious  statement  tlicy  contented 
themselves  with  laying  a  heavy  fine 
on  the  lands  of  Beaurepaire. 

Assignats  were  abundant  at  this 
time,  but  good  mercantile  paper  —  a 
notorious  coward  —  had  made  itself 
wings  and  fled,  and  specie  was  creep- 
ing into  strong-boxes,  like  a  startled 
rabbit  into  its  hole. 

The  fine  Avas  paid,  but  Beaurepaire 
had  to  be  heavily  mortgaged,  and  the 
loan  bore  a  high  rate  of  interest. 

This  was  no  sooner  arranged  than 
it  transpired  that  the  baron  just  before 
his  deatli  had  contracted  large  debts, 
for  which  his  estate  was  answerable. 

The  baroness  sold  her  carriage  and 
horses,  and  both  she  and  her  daugh- 
ters prepared  to  deny  themselves  all 
but  the  bare  necessaries  of  life,  and 
pay  off  their  debts  if  possible.  On  this 
their  dependants  fell  away  from  them  ; 
their  fair  -  weather  friends  came  no 
longer  near  them  ;  and  many  a  flush 
of  indignation  crossed  their  brows, 
and  many  an  aching  pang  their  hearts, 
as  adversity  revealed  to  them  the 
baseness  and  inconstancy  of  common 


people  high  or  low.  When  the  other 
servants  had  retired  with  their  wages, 
one  Jacintha  remained  behind,  and 
begged  permission  to  speak  to  the  bar- 
oness. 

"  What  would  you  with  me,  my 
child?"  asked  that  high-bred  lady, 
with  an  accent  in  which  a  shade  of 
surprise  mingled  with  great  polite- 
ness. 

"  Forgive  me,  madamc  the  baron- 
ess," began  Jacintha,  with  a  formal 
courtesy  ;  "  but  how  can  I  leave  you 
and  ]\Iademoiselle  Josephine,  and 
Mademoiselle  Laure  ?  Reflect,  ma- 
dame  ;  I  was  born  at  Beaurepaire  ;  my 
mother  died  in  the  chateau ;  my  fa- 
ther died  in  the  village  ;  but  he  had 
meat  every  day  from  the  baron's  own 
table,  and  fuel  from  the  baron's  wood, 
and  died  blessing  the  house  of  Beau- 
repaire—  Mademoiselle  Laure,  speak 
for  me  !  Aii,  you  weep  !  it  is  then 
that  you  see  it  is  impossible  I  can  go. 
Ah  no !  madame,  I  will  not  go  ;  for- 
give me  ;  I  cannot  go.  The  odiers 
are  gone  because  prosperity  is  here 
no  longer.  Let  it  be  so ;  1  will  stay 
till  the  sun  shines  again  upon  the 
chateau,  and  then  you  shall  send  me 
away  if  it  seems  good  to  you  ;  but  not 
now  my  ladies  1  0,  not  now  !  Oh  ! 
oh  !  oh  !  " 

The  warm-hearted  girl  burst  out 
sobbing  ungracefully. 

"  My  child,"  said  the  baroness, 
"  these  sentiments  touch  me,  and 
honor  you.  But  retire  if  you  please, 
while  1  consult  my  daughters." 

Jacintha  cut  her  sobs  dead  sliort, 
and  retreated  with  a  most  cold  and 
formal  reverence. 

The  consultation  consisted  of  the 
baroness  opening  her  arms,  and  both 
her  daughters  embracing  her  at  once. 

"  My  children  !  there  are  then  some 
who  love  you." 

"No  !  you,  mamma  !  It  is  you  we 
all  love." 

Three  women  were  now  the  only 
pillars,  a  man  of  science  and  a  servant 
of  all  work  the  only  outside  props, 
the  buttresses,  of  the  great  old  house 
of  Bcar.ropaire. 


WHITE   LIES. 


As  months  rolled  on,  Laure  Aglae 
Rose  lie  Bcaurepaire  recovered  her 
natural  gayety  in  spite  of  bereavement 
and  poverty,  —  so  strong  are  youth 
and  hc:tlth  and  temperament.  But 
liLT  elder  sister  had  a  grief  all  her 
own.  Captain  Diijardin,  a  gallant 
young  officer,  well  bom,  and  his  own 
master,  had  courted  her  with  her  par- 
ents' consent;  and  even  when  the 
baron  began  to  look  coldly  on  the 
soldier  of  the  Republic,  young  Dujar- 
din,  though  too  proud  to  encounter 
the  baron's  irony  and  looks  of  scorn, 
would  not  yield  love  to  pique.  He  came 
no  more  to  the  chateau  ;  but  he  would 
wait  hours  and  hours  on  the  path  to 
the  little  oratory  in  the  park,  on  the 
bare  chance  of  a  passing  word  or  even 
a  kind  look  from  Josepliine.  So  much 
devotion  gradually  won  a  heart  which 
in  hap])ier  times  she  had  been  half 
encouraged  to  give  him  ;  and  when  he 
left  her  on  a  military  service  of  un- 
common danger,  the  woman's  reserve 
melted,  and,  in  answer  to  his  prayers 
and  tears,  she  owned  for  the  first  time 
that  she  loved  him  better  than  any- 
thing in  the  world,  —  except  duty  and 
honor.  • 

They  parted  in  deep  sorrow,  but 
full  of  hope. 

Woman-like  she  comforted  him 
through  her  tears. 

"  Be  prudent  for  my  sake,  if  not 
for  your  own.  May  God  watch  over 
you  !  Your  danger  is  our  only  fear ; 
for  we  arc  a  united  family.  My 
father  will  never  force  my  inclina- 
tions; these  unhappy  dissensions  will 
soon  cease,  and  he  will  love  you 
again.  I  do  not  say,  '  Be  constant' 
I  will  not  wrong  either  myself  or 
you  by  a  doubt ;  but  promise  me  to 
come  back  in  life,  O  Camille,  Ca- 
mille !  " 

Then  it  was  his  turn  to  comfort 
and  console  her.  He  promised  to 
come  back  alive,  and  with  fresh  hon- 
ors, and  so  more  worthy  the  Demoi- 
selle de  Bcaurepaire. 

They  pledged  their  faith  to  one 
another. 

Letters  from  the  camp  breathing  a 


devotion  little  short  of  worship  fed 
Jose])hine's  attachment ;  and  more 
than  one  public  mention  of  his  name 
and  services  made  her  proud  as  well 
as  fond  of  the  fiery  young  soldier. 

The  time  was  not  yet  come  that 
she  could  open  her  whole  heart  to  her 
parents.  The  baron  was  now  too 
occupied  with  the  state  to  trouble  his 
head  about  love  fancies.  The  baron- 
ess, like  many  parents,  looked  on  her 
daughter  as  a  girl,  though  she  was 
twenty  years  old.  She  belonged,  too, 
to  the  old  school.  A  passionate  love 
in  a  lady's  heart  before  marriage  was 
with  her  contrary  to  etiquette,  and 
therefore  im]noper;  and,  to  her,  the 
great  word  "  improper  "  included  the 
little  word  "  impossible  "  in  one  of  its 
many  folds.  Josephine  loved  her 
sister  very  tenderly ;  but  Laure  was 
three  years  her  junior,  and  she  shrank 
with  modest  delicacy  from  making 
her  a  confidante  of  feelings  the  bare 
relation  of  which  leaves  the  female 
hearer  a  child  no  longer. 

Thus  Josephine  hid  her  heart,  and 
delicious  first  love  nestled  deep  in  her 
nature,  and  thrilled  in  every  secret 
vein  and  fibre.  Alas  !  the  time  came 
that  this  loving  but  proud  spirit 
tiianked  Heaven  she  had  never  pro- 
claimed the  depth  of  her  attachment 
for  Camille  Dujardin. 

They  had  parted  two  years,  and  he 
had  joined  the  army  of  the  Pyrenees 
al)out  one  month,  when  suddenly  all 
correspondence  ceased  on  his  part. 

Restless  anxiety  rose  into  terror  as 
this  silence  continued ;  and  starting 
and  trembling  at  every  sound,  and 
edging  to  the  window  at  every  foot- 
step, Josepliine  expected  hourly  the 
tidings  of  her  lover's  death. 

Months  rolled  on  in  silence. 

Then  a  new  torture  came.  Since 
he  was  not  dead,  he  must  be  unfaith- 
ful. 

At  this  all  the  pride  of  her  race 
was  fired  in  her. 

The  struggle  between  love  and  ire 
was  almost  too  much  for  nature. 

Violently  g.iy  and  moody  by  turns, 
she  alarmed  both  her  mother  and  the 


WHITE   LIES. 


good  Doctor  St.  Aiibin.  The  latter 
was  not,  I  tliink,  quite  without  sus- 
picion of  the  truth ;  however,  lie 
simply  prescribed  change  of  air  and 
place.  She  must  go  to  Frcjus,  a 
watering-place  distant  about  five 
leagues.  Mademoiselle  de  Beaure- 
paire  yielded  a  languid  assent.  To 
her  all  places  were  alike. 

That  same  nigiit,  after  all  had  re- 
tired to  rest,  came  a  low,  gentle  tap  at 
her  door ;  the  next  moment  Laure 
came  into  the  room,  and,  without  say- 
ing a  word,  put  down  her  candle  and 
glided  tip  to  Josephine,  looked  her  in 
the  face  a  moment,  then  wreathed  her 
arms  round  her  neck. 

Josepiiine  panted  a  little :  she  saw 
something  was  coming ;  the  gestures 
and  looks  of  sisters  are  volumes  to 
them. 

Laure  clung  to  her  neck. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  child  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  a  child  !  there  is  your 
mistake.  My  sister,  why  is  it  you 
love  me  no  longer  ?  " 

"  I  love  you  no  longer  ?  " 

"  No  !  We  do  not  hide  our  heart 
from  her  we  love;  we  do  not  try  to 
hide  it  from  her  who  loves  us.  We 
know  the  attempt  would  be  in  vain." 

Josephine  panted  heavily  ;  but  she 
answered  doggedly  :  — 

"Our  house  is  burdened  with  real 
griefs  ;  is  it  for  me  to  intrude  vain 
and  unworthy  sentiments  upon  our 
sacred  and  honorable  sorrows  ?  O 
my  sister,  if  you  have  really  detected 
my  folly,  do  not  expose  me  !  but 
rather  help  me  to  conceal  and  to  con- 
quer that  for  which  your  elder  now 
blushes  before  you  !  " 

And  the  proud  beauty  bowed  her 
white  forehead  on  tlie  mantel-piece, 
and  turned  gently  away  from  her  sis- 
ter. 

"Josephine,"  said  Lanre,  "I  am 
young,  hut  already  I  feel  that  all 
troubles  are  light  compared  with 
those  of  the  heart.  Besides,  we  share 
our  misfortunes  and  our  bereavement, 
and  comfort  one  another.  It  is  only 
you  who  are  a  miser,  and  grudge  me 
my  right,  —  a  share  of  all  your  joys 


and  all  your  griefs  ;  but  do  yon  know 
tliat  you  are  liie  only  one  in  this  ch.a- 
teau  who  does  not  love  me?" 

"Ah,  Laure,  what  words  are  these? 
my  love  is  older  than  yours." 

"No!  no!" 

"  Yes,  my  little  fawn,  your  Jose- 
phine loved  you  the  hour  you  were 
born,  and  has  loved  you  ever  since, 
without  a  moment's  coldness." 

"  Ah  !  my  sister  !  — my  sister  !  As 
if  I  did  not  know  it.  Then  you  will 
turn  your  face  to  me  ?  " 

"  See ! " 

"  And  embrace  me  ?  " 

"  There  !  " 

"And,  now,  bosom  to  bosom,  and 
heart  to  heart ;  tell  me  all  ?  " 

"  I  will  —  to-morrow." 

"  At  least  give  me  your  tears  ;  yon 
see  /  am  not  niggardly  in  that  re- 
spect." 

"  Tears,  love,  —  ah  !  would  I 
could !  " 

"  By  and  by  then  ;  meantime  do 
not  palpitate  so.  See,  I  unclasp  my 
arms.  You  will  find  me  a  reasonable 
person,  indulgent  even  ;  compose 
yourself;  or,  rather,  watch  my  pro- 
ceedings ;  you  are  interested  in  them." 

"  It  appears  to  me  that  you  propose 
to  sleep  here !  " 

"  Does  that  vex  you  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary." 

"  There  I  am  !  "  cried  Laure, 
alighting  among  the  sheets  like  a 
snow-flake  on  water.  "  I  await  you, 
mademoiselle." 

Josephine  found  this  lovely  face 
wet,  yet  smiling  saucily,  upon  her  pil- 
low. She  drew  the  fair  owner  softly 
to  her  tender  bosom  and  aching  heart, 
and  watched  the  bright  eyes  close,  and 
the  coral  lips  part  and  show  their 
pearls  in  childlike  sleep. 

In  the  morning  Laure,  half  awake, 
felt  something  sweep  her  cheek.  She 
kept  her  eyes  closed,  and  Josephine, 
believing  her  still  asleep,  fell  to  kiss- 
ing her,  but  only  as  the  south  wind 
kisses  tlie  violets,  and  embraced  her 
tenderly  but  furtively  like  a  feather 
curling  round  a  lovely  head,  caressing 
yet  scarce  touching,  and  murmuring. 


"WHITE  LIES. 


"Little  anpel  !  "  sicjlicd  gratitude  and 
affection  over  her  ;  but  took  i;rcat 
care  not  to  wake  tier  with  all  this. 
The  little  angel,  who  was  also  a  lit- 
t'e  fox,  lay  still  and  feigned  sleep, 
for  she  felt  she  was  creeping  into  her 
sister's  heart  of  hearts.  From  that 
day  tiiey  were  confidantes  and  friends, 
as  well  as  sisters,  and  never  had  a 
thought  or  feeling  unshared. 

Josephine  soon  found  she  had  very 
few'  facts  to  reveal. 

Laure  had  watched  her  closely  and 
keenly  for  moutlis.  It  was  her  feel- 
ings, lier  confidence,  the  little  love 
wanted;  not  her  secret,  —  that  lay 
bare  already  to  the  slirewd  young 
niinx,  —  I  beg  her  pardon,  —  lynx. 

Give  sorrow  words.     The  grkf  that  does  not 

speak 
Whispers  the  o'er-fraught  heart,  and  bids  it 

break. 

A  deep  observer  proclaimed  this 
three  hundred  years  ago,  and  every 
journal  that  is  printed  now-a-days 
furnishes  the  examples. 

From  this  silent,  moody,  gnawing, 
maddening  sorrow,  Laure  saved  her 
elder  sister.  She  coaxed  her  to  vent 
each  feeling  as  it  rose  ;  her  grief,  her 
doul)t,  her  mortification,  her  indigna- 
tion, her  pride,  and  the  terrible  love 
that  at  times  overpowered  all. 

Thus  much  was  gained.  Tiiese 
powerful  antagonists  were  no  longer 
cooped  up  in  her  bosom  battling  to- 
gether and  tearing  iter. 

They  returned  from  Frejus  :  Jose- 
phine with  a  delicate  rose-tint  instead 
of  the  pallor  that  had  alarmed  St.  Au- 
bin.  lier  mood  fluctuated  no  more. 
A  gentle  pensiveness  settled  upon  her. 
She  looked  the  goddess  Patience. 

She  was  inconceivably  lovely. 

Laure  said  to  her  one  day,  after  a 
long  gaze  at  her  :  — 

"  I  fear  I  shall  never  hate  that  mad- 
man as  I  ought.  Certainly  when  I 
think  of  his  conduct,  I  could  strike 
him  in  the  face."  Here  she  clenched 
her  teeth,  and  made  her  hand  into  a 
sort  of  irregular  little  snowball. 
"  But  when  I  look  at  vou  I  cannot 


hate,  I  can  but  ])ity  that  imbecile  — 
that  —  " 

"  0  my  sister,"  said  Josephine, 
imploringly,  "  let  us  not  degrade  one 
we  have  honored  with  our  esteem,  — 
for  our  own  sakes,  not  his,"  added  she, 
hastily,  not  looking  Laure  in  the  face. 

"No!  forgive  my  vivacity.  I  was 
going  to  tell  you  I  feel  more  pity 
than  anger  for  him.  Does  he  mean 
to  turn  monk,  and  forswear  the  sex? 
if  not,  what  docs  he  intend  to  do  ? 
Where  can  he  hope  to  fiml  any  one 
he  can  love  after  you  ?  Josephine,  the 
more  I  see  of  our  sex,  the  more  I  see 
that  you  are  the  most  beautiful  woman 
in  France,  and  by  consequence  in  Eu- 
rope." 

The  smile  this  drew  was  a  very 
faint  one. 

"  Were  this  so,  surely  I  could  have 
retained  a  single  lieart." 

"  You  have  then  forgotten  your  La 
Fontaine  ?  " 

"Explain." 

"  Docs  he  not  sing  how  a  dunghill 
cock  found  a  pearl  necklace,  and  dis- 
dained it.  And  why  1  Not  that 
pearls  are  worth  less  than  barley- 
corns ;  but  because  he  was  a  sordid 
bird,  and  your  jiredecessors  were 
wasted  on  him,  my  Josephine.  So 
I  pity  that  dragoon  who  might  have 
revelled  in  the  love  of  an  angel,  and 
has  rejected  it,  and  lost  it  forever. 
There,  I  have  made  her  sigh." 

"  Forgive  me." 

"Forgive  her?  for  sighing  ?  I  am, 
then,  veiT  tyrannical." 

One  day  Laure  came  into  the  room 
where  the  baroness,  Ductor  St.  Au- 
bin,  and  Josephine  were  sitting. 

She  sat  down  unobserved. 

But  Josephine,  looking  up  a  minute 
after,  saw  at  a  glance  that  something 
had  happened.  Laure,  she  saw,  under 
a  forced  calmness,  was  in  great  emo- 
tion and  anxiety.  Their  eyes  met. 
Laure  made  her  a  scarce  perceptible 
signal,  and  immediately  after  got  up 
and  left  the  room. 

Josephine  waited  a  few  second« ; 
then  she  rose  and  went  out,  and  found 
Laure  in  the  passage,  asslie  expected. 


WHITE  LIES. 


9 


"  My  poot  sister,  have  vou  cour- 
age ?  " 

"  He  is  dead  !  "  gasped  Josephine. 

"  No  !  lie  lives.  But  he  is  dead  to 
us  and  Fiance.  O  Josephine,  liave 
you  courage  ■? " 

"  I  have,"  faltered  Josephine,  quiv- 
ering from  head  to  foot. 

"  You  know  Dard,  who  works 
about  here  for  love  of  Jacintha  ?  For 
months  past  I  have  set  him  to  speak 
to  every  soldier  who  passes  through 
the  village." 

"  Ah  !  you  never  told  me." 

"  Had}  you  known  my  plan,  you 
would  have  been  forever  on  the  qui 
vive  ;  and  your  tranquillity  was  dear 
to  me.  It  was  the  first  step  to  hap- 
piness. Hundreds  of  soldiers  have 
passed,  and  none  of  them  knew  him 
even  by  name.  To-day,  Josephine, 
two  have  come  that  know  all !  " 

"  All !     O  Laure,  Laure  !  " 

"  He  is  disloyal  to  his  country. 
What  wonder  he  is  a  traitor  to  you !  " 

"  It  is  false  !  " 

"  The  men  are  here.  Come,  will 
you  speak  to  them  ?  " 

"  I  cannot.  But  I  will  come  ;  you 
speak  :  I  shall  hear." 

They  found  in  the  kitclien  two  dis- 
mounted dragoons  before  whom  Jacin- 
tha had  set  a  bottle  of  wine. 

They  ai'ose  and  saluted  the  la- 
dies. 

"  Be  seated,  my  brave  men,"  said 
Laure,  "  and  tell  me  what  you  told 
l)ard  about  Captain  Dujardin." 

"  Don't  stain  your  mouth  with  the 
captain,  my  little  lady.  He  is  a  trai- 
tor ! " 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Marcellus  !  Mademoiselk  asks 
us  how  we  know  Captain  Dujardin  to 
be  a  traitor.     Speak  !  " 

Marcellus,  thus  appealed  to,  told 
Laure,  after  his  own  fashion,  that  he 
knew  the  captain  well ;  that  one  day 
the  captain  rode  out  of  the  camp,  and 
never  returned ;  that  at  first  great 
anxiety  was  felt  on  his  behalf,  for  the 
captain  was  a  great  favorite,  and 
passed  for  the  smartest  soldier  in  the 
division  ;  that  after  a  while  anxiety 
1* 


gave  place  to  some  very  awkward  sus- 
picions, and  these  suspicions  it  was  his 
lot  and  his  comrade's  here  to  confirm . 
About  a  month  later  he  and  the  said 
comrade  and  two  more  had  been  sent, 
well  mounted,  to  reconnoitre  a  Span- 
ish village.  At  the  door  of  a  httle  inn 
they  had  caught  sight  of  a  French 
uniform.  This  so  excited  their  curi- 
osity that  he  went  forward  nearer 
than  prudent,  and  distinctly  recog- 
nized Captain  Dujardin  seated  at  a  ta- 
ble drinking,  between  two  guerillas  ; 
that  he  rode  back  and  told  the  others, 
who  then  rode  up  and  satisfied  them- 
selves it  was  so  ;  that  if  any  of  the 
party  had  entertained  a  doubt,  it  was 
removed  in  an  unpleasant  way.  He, 
Marcellus,  disgusted  at  the  sight  of  a 
French  uniform  drinking  among 
Spaniards,  took  down  his  carabine 
and  fired  at  the  group  as  carefully  as 
a  somewhat  restive  horse  permitted, 
at  which,  as  if  by  magic,  a  score  or  so 
of  guerillas  poured  out  from  Heaven 
knows  where,  musket  in  hand,  and 
delivered  a  volley  :  the  othcer  in  com- 
mand of  the  party  fell  dead,  Jean 
Jacques  got  a  broken  arm,  and  his 
own  horse  was  wounded  in  two  places, 
and  fell  from  loss  of  blood  a  few  fur- 
longs from  the  French  camp,  to  the 
neighborhood  of  which  the  vagabonds 
pursued  them  hallooing  and  shouting 
and  firing  like  barbarous  banditti  as 
they  were. 

"  However,  here  I  am,"  concluded 
Marcellus,  who  was  naturally  more 
interested  in  himself  than  in  Captain 
Dujardin,  "  invalided  for  a  while,  my 
little  ladies,  but  not  expended  yet :  we 
will  soon  dash  in  among  them  again 
for  death  or  glory  !  Meantime,"  con- 
cluded he,  filling  both  glasses,  "  let  us 
drink  to  the  eyes  of  beauty  (military 
salute),  and  to  the  renown  of  France, 

—  and  double  damnation  to  all  her 
traitors,  like  that  Captain  Dujardin, 

—  whose  neck  may  the  Devil  twist" 
In  the  middle  of  this  toast  Josephme, 

who  had  stood  rooted  to  one  place 
with  eyes  glaring  upon  each  speaker 
in  turn,  uttered  a  feeble  cry  like  a  dy- 
ing hare,  and  crept  slowly  out  of  the 


10 


WHITE  LIES. 


room  with  the  carriage  and  manner  of 
a  woman  of  fifty. 

Laure's  first  impulse  was  to  follow 
Josephine,  but  this  would  have  at- 
tracted attention  to  her  despair.  She 
had  the  tact  and  resolution  to  remain 
and  say  a  few  kind  words  to  tiie  sol- 
diers, and  then  she  retired  and  darted 
up  by  instinct  to  Josephine's  bedroom. 
The  door  was  locked. 

"  Josephine !  Josephine  !  " 

No  answer. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  I  am 
frightened,  —  oh  !  do  not  be  alone  !  " 

A  choking  voice  answered  :  — 

"  I  am  not  alone,  —  I  am  with  God 
and  the  saints.  Give  me  a  little  while 
to  draw  my  breath." 

Laure  sank  down  at  the  door,  and 
sat  close  to  it,  with  her  head  against 
it,  sobbing  bitterly.  The  sensitive 
little  love  was  hurt  at  not  being  let  in, 
such  a  friend  as  she  had  proved  her- 
self. But  this  personal  feeling  was 
but  a  small  fraction  of  her  grief  and 
anxiety. 

A  good  half-hour  had  elapsed  when 
Josephine,  pale  and  stern  as  no  one 
had  ever  seen  her  till  that  hour,  sud- 
denly opened  the  door.  She  started 
at  sight  of  Laure  couched  sorrowful 
on  the  threshold  ;  iier  stern  look  re- 
laxed into  tender  love  and  pity  ;  she 
sank  on  her  knees  and  took  her  sis- 
ter's head  quickly  to  iier  bosom. 

"  O  my  little  heart !  "  cried  she, 
"have  you  been  here  all  this  time?  " 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  "  was  all  the  little 
heart  could  reply. 

Then  Josephine  sat  down,  and 
took  Laure  in  her  lap,  and  caressed 
and  comforted  her,  and  poured  words 
of  gratitude  and  affection  over  her 
like  a  warm  shower. 

The  sisters  rose  hand  in  hand. 

Then  Laure  suddenly  seized  Jo- 
sephine, and  looked  long  and  anx- 
iously down  into  her  eyes.  They 
flashed  fire  under  the  scrutiny. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  it  is  ended. 
I  could  not  despise  and  love.  I 
am  dead  to  him,  as  he  is  dead  to 
France." 


"  Ah !  I  hoped  so,  — I  thought  so  ; 
but  you  frightened  me.  My  noble 
sister,  were  I  ever  to  lose  your  es- 
teem I  should  die.  O,  how  awful  yet 
how  beautiful  is  your  scorn !  For 
worlds  I  would  not  be  that  Cam —  " 

Josephine  laid  her  hand  imperious- 
ly on  Laure's  mouth. 

"  To  mention  that  man's  name  to 
me  will  be  to  insult  me  !  De  Beau- 
repaire  I  am,  and  a  Frenchwoman ! 
Come,  love,  let  us  go  down  and  com- 
fort our  mother." 

They  went  down  ;  and  this  patient 
sufferer  and  high-minded  conqueror 
of  her  own  accord  took  up  a  com- 
monplace work,  and  read  aloud  for 
two  mortal  hours  to  her  mother  and 
St.  Aubin.  Her  voice  never  wa- 
vered. 

To  feel  that  life  is  ended,  —  to  wish 
existence,  too,  had  ceased  ;  and  so 
to  sit  down,  an  aching  hollow,  and 
take  a  part  and  sham  an  interest  in 
twaddle  to  please  others,  —  such  are 
woman's  feats.  How  like  nothing 
at  all  they  look  ! 

A  man  would  rather  sit  on  the  buf- 
fer of  a  steam-engine  and  ride  at  the 
great  Redan. 

Laure  sat  at  her  elbow,  a  little  be- 
hind her,  and  turned  the  leaves,  and 
on  one  pretence  or  other  held  Jo- 
sephine's hand  nearly  all  the  rest  of 
the  day.  Its  delicate  fibres  remained 
tense  like  a  greyhound's  sinews  after 
a  race,  and  the  blue  veins  rose  to 
sight  in  it,  though  her  voice  and  eyes 
were  mastered. 

So  keen  was  the  strife,  so  matched 
the  antagonists,  so  hard  the  vic- 
tory ! 

For  ire  and  scorn  are  mighty. 

And  noble  blood  in  a  noble  heart 
is  a  hero. 

And  Love  is  a  Giant. 


CHAPTER    IL 

Arout  this  time,  the  French  prov- 
inces were  organized  upon  a  half-mili- 
tary  plan,    by   which    all   the    local 


WHITE  LIES. 


11 


authorities  radiated  towards  a  centre 
of  government.  This  fcnture  hiis  sur- 
vived subsequent  revolutions  and  po- 
litical changes. 

In  days  of  change,  youth  is  always 
at  a  premium  ;  because,  though  experi- 
ence is  valuable,  the  experience  of  one 
order  of  things  unfits  ordinary  men 
for  another  order  of  things.  A  good 
many  old  fogies  in  office  were  shown 
to  the  door,  and  a  good  deal  of  youtii 
and  energy  infused  into  the  veins  of 
provincial  government. 

For  instance,  Citizen  Edouard  Riv- 
iere, who  had  just  completed  his  edu- 
cation with  singular  eclat  at  a  military 
school,  was  one  fine  day  ordered  into 
Brit. any  to  fill  a  responsible  post  un- 
der the  Commandant  RaynaJ. 

Nervousness  in  a  new  situation  gen- 
erally accompanies  talent.  Tlie  young 
citizen,  as  he  rode  to  pi'csent  his  cre- 
dentials at  head-quarters,  had  his 
tremors  as  well  as  his  pride ;  the  more 
so  as  his  newciiief  was  a  blunt,  rough 
soldier,  that  had  risen  from  the  ranks, 
and  bore  a  much  higher  character  for 
zeal  and  moral  integrity  than  for  affa- 
bility. 

While  the  young  citizen  rides  in  his 
breeches  and  English  top-boots,  his 
white  waistcoat  and  cravat,  his  abun- 
dant shirt-frill,  his  short-waisted  blue 
coat  with  flat  gilt  buttons,  his  pig-tail, 
his  handsome  though  beardless  face 
and  eager  eyes,  to  this  important 
interview,  settling  beforehand  wiiat  he 
shall  say,  what  shall  be  said  to  him, 
and  what  he  shall  reply,  let  us  briefly 
dispose  of  the  commandant's  previous 
history. 

He  was  the  son  of  a  widow  that 
kept  a  grocer's  shop  in  Paris.  She 
intended  him  for  spice,  but  he  thirsted 
for  glory,  —  kept  running  after  the 
soldiers,  and  vexed  her.  "  Soldiering 
in  time  of  peace,"  said  she  ;  "  such 
nonsense, — it  is  like  swimming  on  a 
carpet."  War  came  and  robbed  her 
satire  of  its  point.  The  boy  was  reso- 
lute. The  mother  yielded  now  ;  she 
was  a  Frenchwoman  to  the  back- 
bone. 

In   the   armies  of  the  Republic,  a 


good  soldier  rose  with  unparalleled 
certainty,  and  rapidity  too  ;  for  wlien 
soldiers  are  being  mowed  down  like 
oats,  it  is  a  glorious  time  for  such  of 
them  as  keep  their  feet. 

Raynal  rose  through  all  the  inter- 
vening grades  to  be  a  commandant 
and  one  of  the  general's  aidesda-cuinp, 
and  a  colonel's  epaulets  glittered  in 
sight.  All  this  time,  Raynal  used  to 
write  to  his  mother,  and  joke  her 
about  the  army  being  such  a  bad  pro- 
fession, and  as  he  was  all  for  glory, 
not  money,  he  lived  with  Spartan 
frugality,  and  saved  half  his  pay  and 
all  his  prize-money  for  the  old  lady  in 
Paris. 

And  liere,  this  prosperous  man  had 
to  endure  a  great  disappointment ;  on 
the  same  day  that  he  was  made  com- 
mandant, came  a  letter  into  the  camp. 
His  mother  was  dead  after  a  short  ill- 
ness. Tiiis  was  a  terrible  blow  to  the 
simjjle,  rugged  soldier,  who  had  never 
had  much  time  nor  inclination  to  flirt 
with  a  lot  of  girls,  and  toughen  his 
heart. 

He  came  back  to  Paris  honored  and 
rich,  but  downcast. 

On  his  arrival  at  the  old  place,  it 
seemed  to  him  not  to  have  the  old 
look.  It  made  him  sadder.  To  cheer 
him  up,  they  brought  iiim  a  lot  of 
money.  The  widow's  ti-ade  had  taken 
a  wonderful  start  the  last  few  years, 
and  she  had  been  playing  the  same 
game  as  he  had,  living  on  tcnpcnce  a 
day  and  saving  all  for  him.  This 
made  him  sadder. 

"  What  have  we  both  been  scraping 
all  this  dross  together  for  1  I  would 
give  it  all  to  sit  one  hour  by  the  fire, 
with  her  hand  in  mine,  and  hear  her 
say,  '  Scamp,  you  made  me  unhappy 
when  you  were  young,  but  I  have 
lived  to  be  proud  of  you.'  " 

He  found  out  tlie  woman  who  had 
nursed  her,  flung  more  five-franc 
pieces  into  her  lap  than  she  had  ever 
seen  in  one  place  before,  applied  for 
active  service,  no  matter  what,  ob- 
tained at  once  this  post  in  Brittany, 
and  went  gloomily  from  Paris,  I'-av- 
ing  behind  him  the  reputation  of  an 


12 


WHITE  LIES. 


ungracious  brute,  devoid  of  sentiment. 
In  fact,  the  one  bit  of  sentiment  in 
this  Spartan  was  anything  but  a  ro- 
mantic one  ;  at  least,  I  am  not  aware 
of  any  successful  romance  that  turns 
on  filial  affection  ;  but  it  was  an  abid- 
ing one.  Here  is  a  proof.  It  was 
some  months  after  he  had  left  Paris, 
anil,  indeed,  as  nearly  as  I  can  remem- 
ber, a  couple  of  months  after  young 
Riviere's  first  interview  wiih  him, 
that,  being  in  conversation  with  his 
friend  Monsieur  Penin  the  notary,  he 
told  liim  he  tiiought  he  never  should 
cease  to  feel  this  regret. 

The  notary  smiled  incredulous,  but 
said  nothing. 

"  We  were  fools  to  scrape  all  this 
money  together ;  it  is  no  use  to 
her,  and,  I  am  sure,  it  is  none  to 
me  ! " 

"  Is  it  permitted  to  advise  you  ?  " 
asked  his  friend,  persuasively. 

"Speak!" 

"  This  very  money  which  your  ele- 
vated nature  condemns  may  be  made 
the  means  of  healing  your  wound. 
There  are  ladies,  fair  and  prudent,  who 
would  at  once  capitulate  —  he!  he! 
—  to  you,  backed,  as  you  are,  by  two 
or  tliree  hundred  thousand  francs. 
One  of  these,  by  her  youth  and  affec- 
tion, would  in  time  supply  the  place 
of  her  your  devotion  to  whose  memory 
docs  you  so  much  credit.  That  sum 
would  also  enable  you  to  become  the 
possessor  of  an  estate,  — a  most  advis- 
able investment,  since  estates  are  just 
now  unreasonably  depressed  in  value. 
Its  wood  and  water  would  soothe  your 
eye,  and  relieve  your  sorrow  by  the 
sight  of  vour  wealth  in  an  eiijovablc 
form  \"  " 

"  Halt !  s.iy  that  again  in  half  the 
words!"  roared  the  commandant, 
rouiihly. 

The  notary  said  it  short. 

"  You  can  buy  a  fine  estate  and 
a  chaste  wife  with  the  money," 
snapped  this  smooth  personage,  sub- 
stituting curt  brutality  fur  honeyed 
prolixity.  (Asidf)  "  Marriage  con- 
tract so  much,  —  commission  so 
much." 


The  soldier  was  struck  by  the 
propositions  the  moment  they  hit  him 
in  a  condensed  form,  like  his  much- 
loved  bullets.     He 

Granted  half  his  prnyer, 
Scornful  the  rest  dispersod  iu  empty  air. 

"  Have  I  time  to  be  running  after 
women  1  "  said  he.  "  But  the  estate 
I  '11  have,  because  you  can  get  that 
for  me  without  my  troubling  my 
head." 

"  Is  it  a  commission,  then  1  "  asked 
the  other,  sharply. 

"  Purbleu  /  Do  you  think  I  speak 
for  the  sake  of  talking  1  " 

No  man  had  ever  a  larger  assort- 
ment of  tools  than  Bonaparte,  or  knew 
better  what  each  could  do  and  could 
not  do.  Rayiuil  was  a  perfect  soldier 
as  far  as  he  went,  and  therefore  was 
valued  highly.  Bonaparte  had  formed 
him,  too  ;  and  we  are  not  averse  to 
our  own  work. 

Paynal,  though  not  fit  to  command 
a  division,  had  the  chic  Bonaparte 
visibly  stamped  on  him  by  that  mas- 
ter-hand. 

For  a  man  of  genius  spits  men  of 
talent  by  the  score.  Each  of  these 
adopts  one  or  other  of  his  many  great 
qualities,  and  builds  himself  on  it.  I 
see  the  vuireclutls  of  the  empire  are 
beginning  to  brag,  now  everybody 
else  is  dead.  Well,  dissect  all  those 
marechals,  men  of  talent,  every  one  of 
them,  and  combine  their  leading  ex- 
cellences in  one  figure,  and  add  them 
up  :  Total,  —  a  Napoleonctlo.* 

"  Who  is  that  ?  I  am  busy  writ- 
ing." 

"  Monsieur  the  Commandant,  I  am 
the  citizen  Riviere,  I  am  come  to  pre- 
sent myself  to  you,  and  to  —  " 

"1  know  —  come  for  orders." 

*  I  mean,  of  course,  as  far  as  soldiering 
goes  ;  but  soldiering  was  only  a  part  of  thy 
man,  a  brilliant  part  which  has  blinded  some 
people  as  to  the  jiroportions  of  this  colossal 
figure.  He  was  a  profound,  thou!;h,  from  ne- 
cessity, not  a  libenil  statesman,  a  great  civil 
engineer,  a  marvellous  orator  in  the  l)oudoir 
and  the  field,  a  sound  and  originnl  critic  in  all 
the  arts,  and  the  greatest  legislator  of  modern 
history. 


WHITE  LIES. 


13 


"Exactly,  commandant." 

"  Humph  !  Here  is  a  report  just 
gent  in  by  young  Nicole,  who  fills  the 
same  sort  of  post  as  you,  only  to  the 
northward.  Take  tliis  pen  and  an- 
alyze liis  report,  while  I  write  these 
letters." 

"  Yes,  commandant." 

"  Write    out    the    heads    of    your 

analysis Good  :    it    is    well 

done.  Now  take  your  heads  home 
and  act  under  them  ;  and  frame  your 
report  by  tiiem,  and  bring  it  me  in 
person  next  Saturday." 

"  It  ^lall  be  done,  commandant. 
Where  are  my  quarters  to  be  ?  " 

The  commandant  handed  him  a 
pair  of  compasses,  and  pointed  to  a 
map  on  which  Riviere's  district  was 
marked  in  blue  ink. 

"  Find  the  centre  of  your  district." 

"  This  point  is  the  centre,  com- 
mandant." 

"  Then  quarter  j'ourself  on  that 
point.     Good  day,  citizen." 

This  was  the  young  official's  first 
introduction  to  the  clue  Bonaparte. 
He  rather  admired  it. 

"  This  is  a  character,"  said  he ; 
"  but  by  St.  Denis,  I  should  not  like 
to  commit  a  blunder  under  his  eye." 

J>douard  Riviere  had  zeal,  and  lie 
soon  found  that  his  superior,  with  all 
his  brusquerie,  was  a  great  appreciator 
of  that  quality.  His  instructions,  too, 
were  clear  and  precise.  Riviere  lost 
his  misgivings  in  a  very  few  days,  and 
became  inflated  with  the  sense  of  his 
authority  and  merit,  and  the  flattery 
and  obsequiousness  that  soon  wait  on 
the  former. 

The  commandant's  compasses  had 
pointed  to  the  village  near  Beaure- 
pairc,  as  his  future  abode. 

The  chateau  was  in  sight  from  his 
apartments,  and,  on  incpiiry,  he  was 
told  it  belonged  to  a  Royalist  family, 
—  a  widow  and  two  daughters,  who 
held  themselves  quite  aloof  from  the 
rest  of  tlie  world. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  young  citizen,  Avho 
had  all  the  new  ideas,  and  had  been 
sneering  four  years  at  tlie  old  regime. 
"  I  see.     If  these  rococo  citizens  play 


that  game  with  me,  I  shall  have  to 
take  them  down." 

Thus,  a  fresh  peril  hung  over  this 
family,  on  whose  hearts  and  i'ortuncs 
such  iieavy  blows  had  fallen. 

One  evening,  our  young  Republi- 
can officer,  after  a  day  spent  in  the 
service  of  the  country,  deigned  to  take 
a  little  stroll  to  relieve  the  cares  of 
administration.  He  accordingly  im- 
printed on  his  beardless  face  the  ex- 
pression of  a  wearied  statesman,  and 
in  that  guise  strolled  through  an  ad- 
miring village. 

The  men  pretended  veneration  from 
policy. 

The  women,  whose  views  of  this 
great  man  were  shallower  but  more 
sincere,  smiled  approval. 

The  young  puppy  affected  to  take 
no  notice  of  either  sex. 

Outside  the  village,  Publicola  sud- 
denly encountered  two  young  ladies, 
who  resembled  nothing  he  had  hither- 
to met  with  in  his  district.  They  were 
dressed  in  black,  and  with  extreme 
simplicity ;  but  their  easy  grace  and 
composure,  and  the  refined  sentiment 
of  their  gentle  faces,  told  at  a  glance 
they  belonged  to  the  high  nobility. 
Publicola,  though  he  had  never  seen 
them,  divined  them  at  once  by  their 
dress  and  mien,  and,  as  he  drew  near, 
he  involuntarily  raised  his  hat  to  so 
much  beauty  and  dignity,  instead  of 
just  poking  it  with  a  finger  a  la  Re- 
publi(jiie.  On  this,  the  ladies  instant- 
ly courtesied  to  him  after  the  manner 
of  their  party,  with  a  sweep  and  a 
majesty,  and  a  precision  of  politeness, 
that  the  pup  would  have  laughed  at  if 
he  had  heard  of  it ;  but  seeing  it  done, 
and  well  done,  and  by  lovely  women 
of  high  rank,  lie  was  taken  aback  by 
it,  and  lifted  his  hat  again,  and  bowed 
again  after  he  had  gone  by,  which 
was  absurd,  — and  was  generally  flus- 
tered. In  short,  instead  of  a  memlier 
of  the  Republican  Government  salut- 
ing private  individuals  of  a  decayed 
party,  that  existed  only  by  sufferance, 
a  handsome,  vain,  good-natured  boy 
had  met  two  self-possessed  young 
ladies  of  high  rank  and  breeding,  and 


14 


WHITE  LIES. 


had  cut  the  figure  usual   upon  sucii 
occasions. 

For  the  next  hundred  yards,  his 
cheeks  burned,  and  his  vanity  was 
cooled. 

But  bumptiousness  is  elastic  in 
France  as  in  England  and  amonjj  the 
Esquimaux. 

"  Well,  they  are  pretty  girls,"  says 
he  to  himself.  "  I  never  saw  two  sucii 
pretty  girls  together,  —  they  will  do 
for  me  to  flirt  with  while  I  am  ban- 
ished to  this  Arcadia."  (Banished 
from  school  !) 

And  "  awful  beauty "  being  no 
longer  in  sight,  Mr.  Edouard  resolved 
he  would  flirt  with  them  to  iheir 
hearts'  content. 

But  there  arc  ladies  with  whom  a 
certain  preliminary  is  required  bci'orc 
you  can  flirt  witli  them.  You  must 
be  on  speaking  terms  with  them  first. 
How  was  tliis  to  be  managed  ? 

"  0,  it  would  come  somehow  or 
other  if  he  was  always  meeting  them  ; 
and  really  a  man  that  is  harassed, 
and  worked  as  I  am,  requires  some 
agreeable  recreation  of  this  sort." 

"  Etc." 

He  used  to  watch  at  his  window 
with  a  telcsco])e,  and  whenever 
the  sisters  came  out  of  their  own 
grounds,  which  unfortunately  was  not 
above  three  times  a  week,  he  would 
throw  himself  in  their  way  by  the 
merest  accident,  and  pay  them  a  dig- 
nified and  courteous  salute,  which  he 
had  carefully  got  up  before  a  mir- 
ror in  the  privacy  of  his  own  cham- 
ber. 

In  return  he  received  two  rever- 
ences that  were  to  say  the  least  as  digni- 
fied and  courteous  as  his  own,  tliough 
tliey  had  not  had  the  advantage  of  a 
special  rehearsal. 

So  far  so  good.  But  a  little  cir- 
cumstance cooled  our  Adonis's  hopes 
of  turning  a  bowing  ac<[naintancc  into 
a  speaking  one,  and  a  speaking  into  a 
flirting. 

There  was  a  flaw  at  the  founda- 
tion of  this  pyramid  of  agreeable  se- 
quences. 

Studying  the  faces   of  these  cour- 


teous beauties,  he  became  certain  that 
no  recognition  of  his  charming  person 
mingled  witli  their  repeated  acts  of 
politeness. 

Some  one  of  their  humbler  neigh- 
bors had  the  grace  to  salute  them 
with  the  respect  due  to  them  :  this 
was  no  uncommon  occurrence  to  them 
even  now.  When  it  did  happen,  they 
made  the  j^roper  return.  They  were 
of  too  high  rank  and  breeding  to  bo 
outdone  in  politeness. 

But  that  the  same  person  met  them 
whenever  they  came  out,  and  that  he 
was  handsome  and  interesting,  —  no 
consciousness  of  this  phenomcnor, 
beamed  in  those  charming  coun- 
tenances. 

Citizen  Riviere  was  first  piqued  anc^ 
then  began  to  laugli  at  his  want  of 
courage,  and  on  a  certain  day  when 
bis  importance  was  vividly  present  to 
him  he  took  a  new  step  towards  mak- 
ing this  agreeable  acquaintance  :  he 
marclied  up  to  the  Chateau  de  Beau- 
repaire  and  called  on  the  baroness  of 
that  ilk. 

lie  sent  up  his  name  and  office  with 
due  pomp.  Jacintha  returned  with  a 
note  black-edged :  — 

"  Hiqhli/  flattered  hij  Monsieur  de 
Rii-iere's  visit,  the  baroness  informed 
him  that  she  received  none  hut  old  ac- 
quaintances in  the  present  grief  of  the 
famili/  and  of  the  kingdom." 

Young  Riviere  was  cruelly  morti- 
fied by  this  rebuff.  He  went  off  hur- 
riedly, grinding  his  teeth  with  rage. 

"Cursed  aristocrats!  Ah!  we 
have  done  well  to  pull  you  down,  and 
we  will  have  you  lower  still.  How  I 
despise  myself  for  giving  any  one  the 
chance  to  affront  me  thus !  The 
haught}'  old  fool !  if  she  liad  known 
her  interest,  she  would  have  been 
too  glad  to  make  a  powerful  friend. 
These  Royalists  are  in  a  ticklish  posi- 
tion :  I  can  tell  her  that.  But  stay,  — 
she  calls  me  De  Riviere.  She  does  not 
know  who  I  am  then !  Takes  me 
for  some  young  aristocrat !  Well 
then  after  all,  —  but  no  !  that  makes 
it  worse.  She  implies  that  nobody 
without  a  '  De  '  to  their  name  would 


WHITE  LIES. 


15 


have  the  presumption  to  visit  her  old 
tumble-down  liouse.  Well,  it  is  a 
lesson  !  I  am  a  Republican  and  the 
Commonwealth  trusts  and  honors  mc  ; 
yet  I  am  so  ungrateful  as  to  go  out  of 
the  way  to  be  civil  to  her  enemies,  — 
to  Royalists ;  as  if  those  worn-out 
creatures  had  hearts,  —  as  if  tiiey 
could  comprehend  the  struggle  that 
took  place  in  my  mind  between  duty 
and  generosity  to  the  fallen,  before  I 
could  make  the  first  overture  to  their 
acquaintance, — as  if  they  could  un- 
derstand the  politeness  of  the  heart, 
or  anything  nobler  than  curving  and 
ducking,  and  heartless  etiquette. 
This  is  the  last  notice  I  will  ever  take 
of  that  family,  that  you  may  take 
your  oath  of  !  !  !  !  " 

He  walked  home  to  the  town  very 
fust,  his  heart  boiling  and  his  lips 
compressed,  and  his  brow  knitted. 

Just  outside  the  town  he  met  Jose- 
phine and  Laure  de  Beaurepaire. 

At  the  sight  of  their  sweet  faces 
his  moody  brow  cleared  a  little,  and 
he  was  surprised  into  saluting  them 
as  usual,  only  more  stiffly,  when  lo ! 
from  one  of  the  ladies  there  broke  a 
smile  so  sudden,  so  sweet,  and  so 
vivid,  that  he  felt  it  hit  him  on  the 
eyes  and  on  the  heart. 

Ills  teeth  unclenched  themselves, 
his  resolve  dissolved,  and  another  came 
in  its  place.  Nothing  should  prevent 
him  from  penetrating  into  that  forti- 
fied castle,  which  contained  at  least 
one  sweet  creature  who  had  recog- 
nized him,  and  given  him  a  smile 
brimful  of  sunshine. 

That  niirht  he  hardly  slept  at  all, 
and  woke  very  nearly  if  not  quite  in 
love. 

Such  wis  the  power  of  a  smile. 

Yet  this  young  gentleman  had  seen 
many  smilers,  but  to  be  sure  most  of 
tiiem  smiled  without  effect,  because 
they  smiled  eternally ;  they  seemed 
cast  with  their  mouths  open,  and  their 
pretty  teeth  forever  in  sight,  which 
has  a  saddening  influence  on  a  man 
of  sense,  —  when  it  has  any. 

But  here  a  pensive  face  had  bright- 
ened at  sight  of  him  ;  a  lovely  coun- 


tenance on  which  circumstances,  not 
Nature,  had  impressed  gravity,  had 
sprung  back  to  its  natural  gayety  for  a 
moment,  and  for  him. 

Difficulties  spur  us  whenever  they 
do  not  check  us. 

My  lord  sat  at  his  window  with  his 
book  and  telescope  fur  hours  every 
day. 

Alas  !  mcsdemoiselles  did  not  leave 
the  premises  for  three  days. 

But  on  the  fourth  industry  was  re- 
warded :  he  met  them,  and,  smiling 
himself  by  anticipation,  it  was  his 
fate  to  draw  from  the  lady  a  more  ex- 
quisite smile  than  the  last. 

Smile  the  second  made  his  heart 
beat  so  he  could  feel  it  against  his 
waistcoat. 

Beauty  is  power:  a  smile  is  its  sword. 
These  two  cliarming  thrusts  subdued 
if  they  did  not  destroy  Publicola's 
wrath  against  the  baroness,  and  his 
heart  was  now  all  on  a  glow.  A 
passing  glimpse  two  or  three  times  a 
week  no  longer  satisfied  its  yearning. 
There  was  a  little  fellow  called  Dard 
who  went  out  shooting  with  him  in 
the  capacity  of  a  beater,  —  thisyoimg 
man  seemed  to  know  a  great  deal 
about  the  family.  He  told  him  that 
the  ladies  of  Beaurepaire  went  to 
Mass  every  Sunday  at  a  little  church 
two  miles  off.  The  baroness  used  to 
go  too,  but  now  they  have  no  carriage 
she  stays  at  home.  She  won't  go  to 
church  or  anywhere  else  now  she  can't 
drive  up  and  have  a  blazing  lackey 
to  hand  her  out,  —  "  Aristo  va."  * 

Riviere  smiled  at  this  demonstra- 
tion of  plebeian  bile. 

Next  Sunday  saw  him  a  political 
renegade.  He  fliiled  in  a  prime  arti- 
cle of  Republican  faith.  He  went  to 
church. 

The  Republic  had  given  up  goinir 
to  church  :  the  male  part  of  it  in  par- 
ticular. 

Citizen  Riviere  attended  church 
and  there  worshipped — Cupid.  He 
smarted  for  this.  Tiie  young  ladies 
went  with  higher  motives,  and  took 
no  notice  of  him.     Tiiey  lowered  their 

*  Aristocrat  go  to  ! 


16 


WHITE   LIES, 


long  silken  lashes  over  one  breviaiy. 

and  scarcely  observed  the  handsome 
citizen. 

Meantime  he,  contemplating  their 
pions  beauty  with  earthl}'  eyes,  was 
drinking  long  draughts  of  intoxicat- 
ing passion. 

And  when  after  the  service  they 
each  took  an  arm  of  St.  Aubin,  and  he, 
witli  the  air  of  an  admiral  convoying 
two  ships  choke-full  of  specie,  conduct- 
ed his  precious  charge  away  home, 
our  young  citizen  felt  Jealous,  and  all 
but  hated  the  wortliy  doctor. 

One  day  Riviere  was  out  shooting, 
accompanied  by  Dard. 

A  covey  of  partridges  got  up  wild, 
and  went  out  of  bounds  into  a  field  of 
late  clover. 

"  It  is  well  done,  citizen,"  shouted 
little  Dard,  "  at  present  we  arc  going 
to  massacre  tliem." 

"  But  that  is  not  my  ground." 
"  No  matter :  it  belongs  to  Beaure- 
paire." 

"  The  last  people  I  should  like  to 
take  a  liberty  with." 

"  You  must  not  be  so  nice ;  they 
have  no  gamekeeper  now  to  interfere 
with  us :  they  can't  afford  one.  Aha ! 
aristocrats !  The  times  are  changed 
since  your  pigeons  used  to  devastate 
us,  and  we  durst  not  shoot  one  of  the 
marauders,  —  the  very  pheasants  arc 
at  our  mercy  now." 

"  The  more  ungenerous  would  it  be 
of  us  to  take  advantage." 

"  Citizen,  I  tell  you  everybody 
shoots  over  Beaurepaire." 
"  O,  if  everybody  does  it  —  " 
In  short  Dard  prevailed.  A  small 
amount  of  logic  suffices  to  prove  to  a 
man  of  one-and-twenty  that  it  is  mor- 
al to  follow  his  birds. 

Our  hero  had  liis  misgivings ;  but 
the  game  was  abundant,  and  tamer 
than  elsewhere. 

In  for  a  penny  in  for  a  pound.  The 
next  time  they  went  out  together,  1 
blush  to  say  he  began  with  this  very 
field  of  clover,  and  killed  two  brace 
in  it.  It  was  about  four  o'clock  of 
this  day  when  the  s])ortsman  and  his 
assistant  emerged  from  the  fields  upon 


the  high  road  between  Beaurepaire 
and  the  village,  and  made  towards 
the  latter. 

They  had  to  pass  Bigot's  auheryje, 
a  long  low  house  all  across  which 
from  end  to  end  was  printed  in  gigan- 
tic letters :  — 

"  ICI    ON   LOGE   A    PIED    ET    A   CHEVAL."  * 

"Here  one  lodges  ou  foot  aad  horseback." 

Opposite  this  Dard  halted  and 
looked  wistfully  in  his  superior's  face, 
and  laid  his  hand  pathetically  on  his 
centre. 

"What  is  the  matter?  Arc  you 
ill  •?  " 

"  Very  ill,  citizen." 

"What  is  it?" 

"The  soldier's  gripes,"  replied  this 
vulgar  little  party ;  "  and,  citizen,  only 
smell ;  the  soup  is  just  coming  off  the 
fire." 

This  little  Dard  resembled  (in  one 
particular)  Cardinal  Wolsey,  as 
iianded  down  to  us  by  the  immortal 
bard,  and  by  the  painters  of  his 
day :  — 
"  He  was  a  man  of  an  unbounded  stomach." 

He  had  gone  two  hours  past  his 
usual  feeding  time,  and  was  in  pain 
and  affliction. 

Riviere  laughed  and  consented. 

"  We  Avill  have  it  in  the  porch," 
said  he. 

The  consent  was  no  sooner  out  of 
his  mouth  than  Dard  dashed  wildly 
into  the  kitchen. 

Riviere  himself  was  not  sorry  of  an 
excuse  to  linger  an  hour  in  a  place 
where  the  ladies  of  Beaurepaire  might 
perhaps  pass  and  see  him  in  a  new 
costume,  —  his  shooting  cap  and  jack- 
et, adorned  with  all  the  paraphernalia 
of  the  sport,  winch  in  France  are  got 
up  with  an  eye  to  ornament  as  well 
as  use. 

The  soup  was  brought  out,  and  for 
several  minutes  Dard's  feelings  were 
too  great  for  utterance. 

But  Riviere  did  not  take  after  the 
great  cardinal,  especially  since  he  had 
fallen  in  love.     He  soon  despatched  a 

*  What  a  rnw  tho  latter  customers  must 
make  going  up  to  bed  1 


WHITE   LIES. 


17 


frugal  meal ;  tlicn  went  in  anil  got 
some  scrap.-;  fur  the  dog,  and  then  be- 
gan to  lay  the  game  out  and  count  it. 
He  emptied  his  own  pocket  and 
Dard's  game-bag,  and  altogether  it 
made  a  good  show. 

The  small  citizen  was  now  in  a  fit 
state  to  articulate. 

"  A  good  day's  work,  citizen,"  said 
he,  stretching  himself  luxuriously,  till 
he  turned  from  a  rotundity  to  an 
oval ;  "  and  most  of  it  killed  on  the 
lands  of  Beaurepaire, — all  the  bet- 
ter." 

"  You  appear  not  to  Iflve  that  fam- 
ily, Dard." 

"  Your  penetration  is  not  at  fault, 
citizen.  I  do  not  love  that  fiiraily," 
was  the  stern  reply. 

Edouard,  for  a  reason  before  hinted 
at,  was  in  no  hurry  to  leave  the  place, 
and  the  present  seemed  a  good  oppor- 
tunity for  pumping  Dard.  He  sent 
therefore  for  two  pipes  :  one  he  pre- 
tended to  smoke,  the  other  he  gave 
Dard  :  for  this  shrewd  young  person- 
age had  observed  that  these  rustics, 
under  the  benign  influence  of  tobacco, 
were  placidly  reckless  in  their  reve- 
lations. 

"By  the  bj-,  Dard  (puff),  wliy 
did  you  say  you  dislike  that  family  ?  " 

"  Because  —  because  I  can't  help  it ; 
it  is  stronger  than  1  am.  I  hate  them, 
ariMo  —  va  !  "  (puff.) 

"But  why  ?  —  why  ?  —  why  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  good,  you  demand  why  ?  — 
(puff).  Well,  tlien,  because  they  im- 
pose upon  Jacintha." 

"Oh!" 

"  And  then  she  imposes  upon  me." 

"Even  now  I  do  not  quite  under- 
stand. Explain,  Dard,  and  assure 
yourself  of  my  sympathy  "  (puff). 

Thus  encouraged,  Dard  became  lo- 
quacious. 

"  Tliose  Beaurepaire  aristocrats," 
said  he,  with  his  hard  peasant  good 
sense,  "  are  neither  one  thing  nor  the 
other.  They  caimot  keep  up  nobility, 
they  have  not  the  means,  —  they  will 
not  come  down  off  their  perch,  they 
have  not  the  sense.  No,  for  as  smail 
as  they  are,  they  must  look  and  talk 


as  big  as  ever.  They  can  only  afford 
one  servant,  and  I  don't  believe  they 
pay  her,  but  they  must  he  attended  on 
just  as  obsequious  as  when  they  had 
a  dozen.  And  this  is  fotal  to  all  us 
little  people  that  have  the  misfortune 
to  be  connected  with  them." 

"  Why,  how  arc  you  connected  with 
them  •}  " 
.     "  By  the  tie  of  affection." 

"  I  thought  you  hated  them." 

"  Clearly  :  but  I  have  the  ill  luck 
to  love  Jacintha,  and  she  loves  these 
aristocrats,  and  makes  me  do  little  odd 
jobs  for  them  "  ;  and  here  Dard's  eye 
suddenly  glared  witli  horror. 

"Well!  what  of  hV 

"  What  of  it,  citizen,  what  ?  you  do 
not  know  the  fatal  meaning  of  those 
accursed  words  1 " 

"  Why,  it  is  not  an  obscure  phrase. 
I  never  heard  of  a  man's  back  being 
broken  by  little  odd  jobs." 

"  Perhaps  not  his  back,  citizen,  but 
his  heart  ?  if  little  odd  jobs  will  not 
break  that,  why,  nothing  will.  Torn 
from  place  to  place,  and  from  trouble 
to  trouble :  as  soon  as  one  tiresome 
thing  begins  to  go  a  bit  smooth,  off  to 
a  fresh  plague,  —  a  new  handicraft  to 
torment  your  head  and  your  fingers 
over  every  day  :  in-doors  work  when 
it  is  dry,  out  a  doors  wlien  it  snows,  — 
and  then  all  bustle,  —  no  taking  one's 
work  quietly,  the  only  way  it  agrees 
with  a  fellow  :  no  repose.  '  Milk  the 
cow,  Dard,  but  look  sharp  ;  for  the 
baroness's  chair  wants  mending,  — 
take  these  slops  to  tlie  pig,  but  you 
must  not  wait  to  see  him  enjoy  them  ; 
you  are  wanted  to  chop  billets  for  me.' 
Beat  the  mats,  —  take  down  the  cur- 
tains, —  walk  to  church  (best  part  of 
a  league)  and  heat  the  pew  cushions, 
—  come  back  and  cut  the  cabbages, 
paint  the  door,  and  wheel  the  old  lady 
about  the  terrace,  rub  quicksilver  on 
the  little  dog's  back  :  mind  he  don't 
bite  you  to  make  himself  sick  !  repair 
the  ottoman,  roll  tlie  gravel,  clean 
the  kettles,  carry  half  a  ton  of  water 
up  three  pair  of  stairs,  trim  the  turf, 
prune  the  vine,  drag  the  fish-pond, 
and  when  you  arc  there,  go  in   and 


18 


WHITE   LIES. 


gather  water-lilies  for  Mademoiselle 
Josephine  while  yoii  are  drownin<i:  the 
puppies  ;  that  is  little  odd  jobs.  May 
Satan  twist  her  neck  who  invented 
them  ! " 

"  Very  sad  all  this,"  said  young 
Riviere,  as  gravely  as  he  could ;  "  but 
about  the  family." 

"  I  am  citizen.  When  I  go  into 
tlieir  kitchen  to  court  Jacintha  a  bit, 
instead  of  finding  a  good  supper 
there,  which  a  man  has  a  right  to, 
courting  a  cook,  if  I  don't  take  one  in 
my  pocket,  there  is  no  supper,  not  to 
say  supper,  for  cither  her  or  me.  I 
don't  call  a  salad  and  a  bit  of  cheese 
rind  —  supper  !  Beggars  in  silk  and 
satin  I  call  them.  Every  sou  they 
have  goes  on  to  their  backs,  instead  of 
into  their  bellies." 

"Nonsense,  Dard.  I  know  your 
capacity,  but  you  could  not  eat  a  hole 
in   their  income,    that   ancient   fam- 

ily." 

"  I  could  eat  it  all,  and  sit  here. 
Income  !  I  would  not  change  incomes 
with  them  if  they  'd  throw  me  in  a 
pancake  a  day.  I  tell  you,  citizen, 
they  are  the  poorest  family  for  leagues 
round  ;  not  that  they  need  be  quite  so 
poor,  if  they  could  swallow  a  little  of 
tlieir  pride.  But  no,  they  must  have 
china,  and  plate,  and  fine  linen,  at 
dinner ;  so  their  fine  plates  are  always 
bare,  and  their  silver  trays  empty. 
Ask  the  butcher,  if  you  don't  believe 
me  ! 

"  You  ask  him  whether  he  does  not 
go  three  times  to  the  smallest  shop- 
keeper, for  once  he  goes  to  Beaure- 
paire.  Their  tenants  send  them  a 
little  meal  and  eggs,  and  now  and 
then  a  hen,  because  they  must ;  their 
great  garden  is  chock-full  of  fruit  and 
vegetables,  and  Jacintha  makes  me 
dig  in  it  gratis,  —  and  so  they  muddle 
on.  And  then  the  baroness  must  have 
her  cofiec  as  in  the  days  of  old,  and 
they  can't  afford  to  buy  it,  —  so  they 
roast,  —  haw !  haw  !  —  they  roast  a 
lot  of  horse  beans  that  cost  nothing, 
and  grind  them,  and  serve  up  the 
liquor  in  a  silver  cafdiere,  on  a  silver 
salver.     Arista  va." 


"  Is  it  possible  ?  —  reduced  to  this ! 
—  oh!" 

"  Perdition  seize  them !  why  don't 
they  melt  their  silver  into  soup,  — 
why  don't  they  sell  the  superfluous 
and  buy  the  grub  1  and  I  can't  see 
why  they  don't  let  their  house  and 
that  accursed  garden,  in  which  I  sweat 
gratis,  and  live  in  a  small  house,  and 
be  content  with  as  many  servants  as 
they  can  pay  wages  to." 

"  Dard,"  said  Riviere,  thoughtfully, 
interrupting  him,  "  is  it  really  true 
about  the  beans  "?  " 

"  I  tell  you  I  have  seen  Mademoi- 
selle Laure  doing  it  for  the  old  wo- 
man's breakfast  ;  it  was  Laure  invented 
the  move.  A  girl  of  nineteen  begin- 
ning already  to  deceive  the  world.  But 
they  are  all  tarred  with  the  same 
stick.     Aristo  va." 

"  Dard,  you  are  a  brute !  " 

"  Me,  citizen  ?  " 

"  You  !  there  is  noble  poverty,  as 
well  as  noble  wealth.  I  might  have 
disdained  these  people  in  their  pros- 
perity, but  I  revere  them  in  their  af- 
fliction." 

"  I  consent,"  replied  Dard,  very 
coolly.  "  That  is  your  aflliir ;  but 
permit  me,"  and  here  he  clenched  his 
teeth  at  remembrance  of  his  wrongs, 
"  on  my  own  part  to  say  that  I  will 
no  more  be  a  scullery-man  without 
wages  to  these  high-minded  starve- 
lings, these  illustrious  beggars." 
Then  he  heated  himself  red  hot.  "  I 
will  not  even  be  their  galley-slave. 
Next,  I  have  done  my  last  little  odd 
job  in  this  world,"  yelled  the  now  in- 
furiated /(JC?o;«;n.  "  All  is  ended.  Of 
two  things  one,  —  either  Jacintha 
quits  those  a?-istos,  or  I  leave  Jacin — 
Eh  ?  —  ah  !  —  oh  !  —  ahem  !  How 
— 'owd'ye  do,  Jacintha  ?  "  and  his 
roar  ended  in  a  whine,  as  when  a  dog 
runs  barking  out  and  receives  in  full 
career  a  cut  from  his  master's  whip, 
and  his  generous  rage  turns  to  whim- 
per then  and  there.  "  I  was  just  talk' 
ing  of  you,  Jacintha,"  faltered  Dard, 
in  conclusion. 

"  I  heard  you,  Dard,"  I'eplied  Jacin- 
tha, slowly,  quietly,  grimly. 


WHITE  LIES. 


19 


Dard  from  oval  shrank  back  to 
round. 

The  person  whose  sudden  appear- 
ance at  t!ie  door  of  the  porch  reduced 
the  swelling  Dard  to  his  natural  lim- 
its, moral  and  corporeal,  was  a  strap- 
ping young  woman,  with  a  comely, 
peasant  face,  somewhat  freckled,  and 
a  pair  of  large  hlack  eyes,  surmounted 
by  coal-black  brows  that  inclined  to 
meet  upon  the  bridge  of  the  nose. 
She  stood  in  a  bold  attitude,  her  mas- 
sive but  well-formed  arms  folded  so 
that  the  pressure  of  each  against  the 
other  mad|e  them  seem  gigantic,  and 
her  cheek  pale  with  wrath,  and  her 
eyes  glittering  like  basilisks'  upon  citi- 
zen Dard.  llad  petulance  mingled 
with  her  wrath,  Riviere  would  have 
howled  with  laughter  at  Dard's  dis- 
comfiture, and  its  cause  ;  but  a  hand- 
some woman,  boiling  with  suppressed 
ire,  has  a  touch  of  the  terrible,  and 
Jacintha's  black  eyes  and  lowering 
black  brows  gave  her,  in  this  moment 
of  lofty  indignation,  a  grander  look 
than  belonged  to  her.  So  even  Riv- 
iere put  down  his  pipe,  and  gazed  up 
in  her  face  with  a  shade  of  misgiving. 

She  now  slowly  unclasped  her  arms, 
and,  with  her  great  eye  immovably 
fixed  on  Dard,  siie  pointed  with  a 
commanding  gesture  towards  Beaure- 
paire.  Citizen  Dard  was  no  longer 
master  of  his  own  limbs  ;  he  was  even 
as  a  bird  fascinated  t)y  a  rattlesnake  ; 
he  rose  slowly,  with  his  eyes  fastened 
to  hers,  and  was  moving  off  like  an 
ill-oiled  automaton  in  the  direction  in- 
dicated ;  but  at  this  a  suppressed  snig- 
ger began  to  shake  Riviere's  whole 
body  till  it  bobbed  up  and  down  on 
the  seat.  That  weakened  the  spell : 
Dard  turntjd  to  him  ruefully. 

"  There,  citizen,"  he  cried,  "do  you 
see  that  imperious  gesture  7  Now  I  '11 
tell  you  what  that  means, — that  means 
you  promised  to  dig  in  the  aristocrat's 
garden  this  afternoon,  —  so  march  ! 
Here,  then,  is  one  that  has  gained 
nothing  by  kings  being  put  down,  for 
I  am  ruled  with  a  rod  of  iron.  Thank 
your  stars,  citizen,  that  you  are  not 
in  my  place." 


"  Dard,"  retorted  Jacintha,  "  if  you 
don't  like  your  place,  you  can  quit  it. 
I  know  two  or  three  that  will  be  glad  to 
take  it.  There,  say  no  more ;  now  I  am 
here  I  will  go  back  to  the  village,  and 
we  shall  see  whether  all  the  lads  recoil 
from  a  few  little  jobs  to  be  done  by 
my  side,  and  paid  by  my  friendship." 

"  No  !  no  !  Jacintha ;  don't  be  a 
fool !  I  am  going ;  there,  I  am  at  your 
service,  my  dear  friend.     Come  !  " 

"  Go  then  ;  you  know  what  to  do." 

"  And  leave  you  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Jacintha.  "  I  must 
speak  a  word  to  monsieur,  —  you  have 
rendered  it  necessary." 

The  subjugated  one  crept  to  Beau- 
repaire,  but  often  looked  behind  him. 
He  did  not  relish  leaving  Jacintha 
with  the  handsome  young  citizen,  es- 
pecially after  her  hint  that  there  were 
better  men  in  the  district  than  himsell'. 

Jacintha  turned  to  young  Riviere, 
and  spoke  to  him  in  a  very  different 
tone,  —  coldly,  but  politely. 

"  Monsieur  will  think  me  very  hardy 
thus  to  address  a  stranger,  but  I  ought 
not  to  allow  monsieur  to  be  deceived, 
and  those  I  serve  belied." 

"  Tiiere  needs  no  excuse,  female  citi- 
zen.   I  am  at  your  service ;  be  seated." 

"  Many  thanks,  monsieur ;  but  I 
will  not  sit  down,  for  I  am  going  im- 
mediately." 

"  All  the  worse,  female  citizen.  But 
I  say,  it  seems  to  me  then  you  heard 
what  Dard  was  saving  to  me.  What, 
did  you  listen  ?     Otic!" 

"  No,  monsieur,  I  did  not  listen," 
replied  Jacintha,  haughtily.  "  I  am 
incapable  of  it ;  there  was  no  necessity. 
Dard  bawled  so  loud  tiie  whole  village 
might  hear.  I  was  passing,  and  heard 
a  voice  I  knew  raised  so  high,  I  feared 
he  was  drunk  ;  I  came  therefore  to  the 
side  of  the  porch  —  with  the  best  in- 
tentions. Arrived  there,  words  struck 
my  ear  that  made  me  pause.  I  was 
so  transfixed  I  could  not  move.  Thus, 
quite  in  spite  of  myself,  I  suffered  the 
pain  of  hearing  his  calumnies ;  you 
see,  monsieur,  that  I  did  not  play  the 
spy  on  you ;  moreover,  that  character 
would   nowise  suit  with  my  natural 


20 


WHITE  LIES. 


disposition.  I  hcai-d  too  your  answer, 
wliich  does  you  so  niucli  cix'dit,  and  I 
instantly  resolved  that  you  should  not 
be  imposed  upon." 

"  Thank  you,  female  citizen." 

"  Neither  the  family  I  serve,  nor 
myself,  are  reduced  to  what  that  little 
fool  described.  I  ouj^lu  not  to  lauyh, 
I  ought  to  be  angry ;  but  after  all  it 
was  only  Dard,  and  Dard  is  a  noto- 
rious fool.  There,  monsieur,"  con- 
tinued she,  graciously,  "  I  will  be  can- 
did, I  will  tell  you  all.  It  is  perfectly 
true  that  the  baron  contracted  debts, 
and  that  the  baroness,  out  of  love  for 
her  children,  is  paying  them  off  as 
fast  as  possible,  that  the  estate  may 
be  clear  before  she  dies.  It  is  also 
true  that  these  heavy  debts  cannot  be 
paid  off  without  great  economy.  But 
let  us  distinguish.  Prudence  is  not 
poverty  ;  rather,  my  young  monsieur, 
it  is  the  thorny  I'oad  to  wealth." 

"  That  is  neatly  expressed,  female 
citizen !  " 

"  Would  monsieur  object  to  call 
me  by  my  name,  since  that  of  citizen 
is  odious  to  me  and  to  most  women '?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  Mademoiselle  Ja- 
cintha,  I  shall  even  take  a  pleasure  in 
it,  since  it  will  seem  to  imply  that  we 
are  making  a  nearer  acquaintance, 
mademoiselle." 

"  Not  mademoiselle,  any  more  than 
citizen.  I  am  neither  demoiselle,  nor 
dame,  but  plain  Jacintha." 

"  No  !  no  !  no  !  not  plain  Jacintha  ! 
Do  you  think  I  have  no  eyes  then, 
pretty  Jacintha?" 

"  Monsieur,  a  truce  to  compli- 
ments !     Let  us  resume  !  " 

"  Be  seated,  then,  pretty  Jacintha !  " 

"  It  is  useless,  monsieur,  since  I  am 
going  immediately.  I  will  be  very 
candid  with  you.  It  is  about  Dard 
having  no  supper  up  at  Beaurepaire. 
This  is  true.  You  see  I  am  candid, 
and  conceal  nothing.  I  will  even 
own  to  you  that  the  baroness,  my 
mistress,  would  be  very  angry  if  she 
knew  supper  was  not  provided  for 
Dard  ;  in  a  word,  I  am  the  culprit. 
.And  I  am  in  the  right.  Listen. 
Dard  is  egoist.     You  may  even,  per- 


haps,   have    yourself   observed    this 
truit." 

"  Glimpses  of  it  —  ha  !  ha  !  ha !  — 
he!  ho!" 

"  Monsieur,  he  is  egoist  to  that  de- 
gree that  he  has  not  a  friend  in  the 
world,  but  me.  I  forgive  him,  be- 
cause I  know  the  reason ;  he  has 
never  had  a  headache  or  a  heartache 
in  his  life." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Jacintha.'* 

"  Monsieur,  at  your  age  there  are 
many  things  a  j'oung  man  does  not 
understand.  But,  though  I  make  al- 
lowances for  Dard,  I  know  what  is 
due  to  myself.  Yes,  he  is  so  egoist, 
that,  were  I  to  fill  that  paunch  of  his, 
I  should  no  longer  know  whether  he 
came  to  Beaurepaire  for  me  or  for 
himself.  Now  Dard  is  no  beauty, 
monsieur ;  figure  to  yourself  that  he 
is  two  inches  shorter  than  I  am." 

"  O  Heaven  !  he  looks  a  foot." 

"  He  is  no  scholar  neither,  and  I 
have  had  to  wipe  up  many  a  sneer 
and  many  a  sarcasm  on  his  account ; 
but  up  to  now  I  have  always  been 
able  to  reply  that  this  five  teet  two 
inches  of  egoism  loves  me  disinterest- 
edly ;  and  the  moment  I  doubt  this 
point  I  give  him  his  conge,  —  poor 
little  fellow  !  Now  you  comprehend 
all,  do  you  not?  Confess  that  lam 
reasonable. 

"  Parhleu !  I  say,  I  did  not  think 
j'our  sex  had  been  so  sagacious." 

"  You  S.1W  me  on  the  brink  of  giving 
the  poor  little  being  his  dismissal  ?  " 

"  I  saw  and  admired.  Well,  then, 
female  cit —  ah  !  pardon  —  Jacintha: 
so  then  the  family  at  Beaurepaire  are 
not  in  such  straits  as  Dard  pretends  ?  " 

"  Monsieur,  do  1  look  like  one 
starved  ? " 

"  By  Jove,  no  !  —  by  Ceres,  I 
mean  !  " 

"  Arc  my  young  mistresses  wan  — 
and  thin  —  and  hollow-eyed  1 " 

"  Treason  !  —  blasphemj'^ !  —  ah  ! 
no.     By  Venus  and  Hebe  no  !  " 

Jacintha  smiled  at  this  enthusiastic 
denial,  and  also  because  her  sex  smile 
when  words  are  used  they  do  not 
understand,  —  guess  why  1 


WHITE  LIES. 


21 


She  resumed  :  — 

"  When  a  cup  overflows  it  cannot 
be  empty  ;  tliosc  have  enou;,di  who 
have  to  spare  ;  now  how  many  times 
has  Dard  himself  sent  or  brought  a 
weary  soldier  to  our  kitchen  by  Made- 
moiselle Ltuire's  own  orders  1  " 

"  Ah  !  I  can  believe  it." 

"  And  how  many  times  have  I 
brought  a  bottle  of  good  Mcdoc  for 
them  from  the  baroness's  cellar !  " 

"  You  did  well.  I  see ;  Dard's 
egoism  blinded  him:  they  are  prudent, 
but  neither  stingy  nor  poor.  All  the 
better.  But  stay  !  —  the  coffee  —  the 
beans." 

Jacintha  colored,  and  seemed  put 
out,  but  it  was  only  for  a  moment ; 
she  smiled  good-humoredly  enough, 
and  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket  and 
drew  out  a  pa'ket. 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

"Permit  me  ;  it  is  coffee,  and 
excellent  if  I  may  judge  by  the  per- 
fume ;  vou  have  just  bought  it  in  the 
village  i " 

Jacintha  nodded. 

"  But  the  beans  !  " 

"  The  beans  !  —  the  beans  !  Well 
—  he  !  he  !  —  Monsieur,  wc  have  a 
little  merry  angel  in  the  house  called 
Mademoiselle  Laure.  She  set  me  one 
day  to  roast  some  beans,  —  the  old 
doctor  wanted  them  for  some  absurd 
experiment.  Dard  came  in,  and  see- 
ing something  cooking,  '  What  are 
they  for  1 '  said  he,  '  what  in  Heaven's 
name  are  they  for  1 '  Ills  curiosity 
knew  no  bounds.  I  was  going  to  tell 
him,  but  Mademoiselle  Laure  gave 
me  a  look.  '  To  make  the  family 
coffee  to  be  sure,'  says  she ;  and  the 
fool  believed  it." 

Iliviere  and  Jacintha  had  a  laugh 
over  Dard's  credulity. 

"  Well,  Jacintlia,  thank  Heaven  ! 
Dard  is  mistaken  ;  and  yet  I  am 
going  to  say  a  foolish  thing  ;  do  you 
know  I  lialf  regret  they  are  not  as 
poor,  no  not  quite,  but  nearly  as  poor, 
as  he  described  them  ;  for  then  —  " 
"  What  then  1 " 

"  You  need  not  be  angry  now." 
"  Me,   monsieur  1      One   is   in   no 


haste  to  be  angry  with  such  a  face  as 
yours,  my  young  monsieur." 

"  Well,  then,  I  should  have  liked 
them  to  be  a  little  jjoor,  that  I  might 
have  had  the  pleasure  and  the  honor 
of  being  useful  to  them." 

"  How  could  you  be  of  use  to 
them  7  " 

"  O,  I  don't  know,  —  in  many 
ways,  —  especially  now  I  have  made 
your  ac(iuaintance, — you  would  have 
told  me  what  to  do.  I  would  not 
have  disobeyed  you,  for  you  are  a 
treasure,  and  I  see  you  love  them  sin- 
cerely ;  it  is  a  holy  cause ;  it  would 
have  been,  I  mean  ;  and  we  should 
have  been  united  in  it,  Jacintha." 
"  Ah  yes  !  as  to  that,  yes." 
"  We  would  have  concerted  means 
to  do  them  kindness  secretly, — with- 
out hurting  their  pride.  And  then  I 
am  in  authority,  Jacintha." 

"  I  know  it,  monsieur.  Dai-d  has 
told  me." 

"  In  great  authority  for  one  so 
young.  They  arc  Royalists,  —  my  se- 
cret protection  might  have  been  of 
wonderful  service  to  them,  and  I  could 
have  given  it  them  without  disloyalty 
to  the  state ;  for,  after  all,  what  has 
the  Ilepublic  to  dread  from  women  1  " 
Through  ail  this,  which  the  young 
fellow  delivered  not  flowingly,  but  in 
a  series  of  little  pants,  each  from  his 
heart,  Jacintha's  great  black  eye  dwelt 
on  him  calm  but  secretly  inquisitive, 
and  on  her  cheek  a  faint  color  came 
and  went  two  or  three  times. 

"  These  sentiments  do  you  honor, 
my  pretty  monsieur  "  (dwelling  ten- 
derly on  tlie  pretty). 

"  And  so  do  yours  do  you,"  cried 
the  young  man,  warmly.  "  Let  us  be 
friends,  us  two,  who,  though  of  differ- 
ent parties,  understand  one  another. 
And  let  me  tell  you  Mademoiselle, 
the  Aristocrat,  that  we  Republicans 
have  our  virtues  too." 

"  Hencefortli  I  will  believe  this  for 
your  sake,  my  child." 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  one  of 
them." 

"  Tell  me." 

"  It  is  this,  —  we  can  recognize  and 


22 


WHITE   LIES. 


bow  to  virtue  in  whatever  class  we  find 
it.  I  revere  you,  cit —  aliem  !  —  hence- 
forth Jacintha  is  to  me  a  word  that 
stands  for  loj'ahy,  fidelity,  and  unself- 
ish affection.  These  are  the  soul  of 
nobility,  —  titles  are  its  varnish.  Such 
spirits  as  you,  I  say,  are  the  ornaments 
of  both  our  sexes,  of  every  rank,  and 
of  human  nature.  Therefore  give  me 
your  pretty  brown  hand  a  moment, 
that  I  may  pay  you  a  homage  I  would 
not  offer  to  a  selfish,  and  by  conse- 
quence a  vulgar  duchess." 

Jacintha  colored  a  little ;  but  put 
out  her  hand  with  a  smile,  and  witii 
the  grace  that  seems  born  with  French- 
women of  all  classes. 

Riviere  held  the  smiling  peasant's 
hand,  and  bowed  his  head  and  kissed  it. 

A  little  to  his  surprise,  the  moment 
he  relaxed  his  hold  of  it,  it  began  to 
close  gently  on  his  hand  and  hold  it, 
and  even  press  it  a  very  little.  Ho 
looked  up,  and  saw  a  female  phenom- 
enon. The  smile  still  lingered  on 
her  lip,  but  the  large  black  eyes  were 
troubled,  and  soon  an  enormous  tear 
quietly  rolled  out  of  them  and  ran 
down  her  tanned  cheek. 

The  boy  looked  wistfully  in  her 
face  for  an  explanation. 

She  replied  to  his  mute  inquiry  by 
smiling,  and  pressing  his  hancl  gently, 
in  which  act  another  tear  welled  quiet- 
ly up,  and  rippled  over,  and  ran  with 
a  slant  into  the  channel  of  the  first. 

The  inexperienced  boy  looked  so 
sad  at  this,  that  she  pressed  his  hand 
still  more,  and  smiled  still  more  kind- 
ly. Then  P2douard  sat,  and  began  to 
watch  with  innocent  curiosity  the 
tears  arrive  thus,  two  a  minute,  with- 
out any  trouble  while  the  mouth 
smiled  and  the  hand  pressed  his. 

At  last  he  said,  in  a  sort  of  petting 
tone,  —  "  Crying,  Jacintha  ■?  " 

"No,  my  friend, — not  that  I  am 
aware  of." 

"  Yes,  you  arc,  —  good !  here  comes 
another." 

"  Am  I,  dear  ?  — it  is  possible." 

"  I  like  it,  —  it  is  so  pretty.  I  am 
afraid  it  is  my  fault.  By'  the  by, 
what  is  it  for  1  " 


"My  friend,  perhaps  it  is  that  you 
praised  me  too  warmly,  monsieur; 
these  are  the  first  words  of  sympathy 
that  have  ever  been  spoken  "to  me  in 
this  village,  above  all,  the  first  words 
of  good-will  to  the  family  I  love  so." 

"  Yes  !  you  do  love  them,  and  so 
do  I." 

"  Thank  you  !  thank  you  !  " 

"  What  witchcraft  do  they  possess  ? 
They  make  me,  you,  and,  I  think, 
every  honest  heart,  their  friend." 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  do  not  be  offend- 
ed, but  believe  me  it  is  no  small 
thing  to  be  an  old  famil}^  There, 
you  see,  I  do  not  weep ;  on  the  con- 
trary, I  discourse.  My  grandfather 
served  a  baron  of  Beaurepaire.  My 
father  was  their  gamekeeper,  and  fed 
to  his  last  hour  from  the  baron's 
plate ;  he  was  disabled  by  ague  for 
many  years  before  he  died,  was  my 
poor  father;  my  mother  died  in  the 
house,  and  was  buried  in  the  sacred 
ground  near  the  family  chapel.  Yes, 
her  body  is  aside  theirs  in  death,  and 
so  was  her  heart  while  she  lived. 
They  put  an  inscription  on  her  tomb 
praising  her  fidelity  and  probity.  Do 
you  think  these  tilings  do  not  sink  in- 
to the  heart  of  the  poor  ?  —  praise  on 
her  tomb,  and  not  a  word  on  their 
own,  but  just  the  name,  and  when 
each  was  born  and  died,  you  know. 
Ah  !  the  pride  of  the  mean  is  dirt, 
but  the  pride  of  the  noble  is  gold ! 

*  "  For,  look  }ou,  among  parvenus 
I  should  be  a  servant,  and  nothing 
more  ;  in  this  proud  family  I  am  a 
humble  friend ;  of  course  they  arc 
not  always  gossiping  with  me  like 
vulgar  masters  and  mistresses,  —  if 
they  did,  I  should  neither  respect  nor 
love  them  ;  but  they  all  smile  on  mo 
whenever  I  come  into  tiic  room,  even 
the  baroness  herself.  I  belong  to 
them,  and  they  belong  to  me,  by  tics 

*  The  French  peasant  often  thinks  half  a 
sentence,  and  utters  the  other  half  aloud,  and 
so  breaKS  air  in  the  middle  of  a  thousht. 
I'robably  Jacintha's  who'e  thought,  if  we 
had  the  means  of  knowing  it,  would  have 
run  like  this :  "  Besides  I  have  another 
reason.  I  could  not  be  so  comfortabb  my- 
self elsewhere,  —  for,  loo!;  you  — 


»   » 


WHITE  LIES. 


23 


without  numl)er,  by  the  years  them- 
selves, —  relicct,  monsieur,  a  century, 
—  by  the  many  kind  words  in  many 
troubles,  by  the  one  roof  that  sheltered 
us  a  hundred  years,  and  the  grave 
where  our  bones  lie  together  till  the 
day  of  God." 

Jacintha  clasped  her  hands,  and 
the  black  eyes  shone  out  warm 
through  their  dew. 

Riviere's  glistened  too. 

"  It  is  well  said,"  he  cried  ;  "  it  is 
nobly  said  !  But,  permit  me,  these 
arc  ties  that  owe  their  force  to  the 
souls  they  bind.  IIow  often  have 
such  bon4s  round  human  hearts 
proved  ropes  of  sand.  They  grapple 
yoa  like  hooks  of  steel,  —  because 
you  are  steel  yourself  to  the  back- 
bone. I  admh-e  you,  cit —  Jacintha 
dear.  Such  women  as  you  have  a 
great  mission  in  France  just  now." 

"  Is  that  true  ■?  What  can  women 
do  1 " 

"  Bring  forth  heroes  !  Be  the 
mothers  of  great  men,  —  the  Catos 
and  the  Gracchi  of  the  future." 

Jacintha  smiled.  She  did  not  know 
the  Gracchi  and  their  political  senti- 
ments ;  and  they  sounded  well. 
"  Gracclii  !  "  a  name  with  a  ring  to 
it.    People  of  distinction  no  doubt. 

"  That  would  be  too  much  honor," 
replied  she,  modestly.  "  At  present  I 
must  say  adieu !  "  and  she  moved  off 
an  inch  at  a  time,  and  with  an  uncer- 
tain hesitating  manner,  looking  this 
way  and  that  "  out  of  the  tail  of  her 
eye,"  as  the  Italians  and  Scotch 
phrase  it. 

Riviere  put  no  interpretation  on 
this. 

"  Adieu  then,  if  it  must  be  so," 
said  he. 

She  caught  sight  of  the  game  laid 
out :  on  this  excuse  she  stopped  dead 
short. 

She  eyed  it  wistfully. 

Riviere  caught  this  glance.  "Have 
some  of  it,"  cried  he,  "  do  liave  some 
of  it." 

"  What  should  I  do  witli  game  1 " 

"  I  mean  for  tlie  chateau." 

"  They  have  such  quantities  of  it." 


"  Ah  !  no  doubt.  All  the  tenants 
send   it,  I   suppose." 

"  Of  course  they  do." 

"  What  a  pity  !  It  is  then  fated 
that  I  am  not  to  be  able  to  show  my 
good-will  to  that  family,  not  even  in 
such  a  trifle  as  this." 

Jacintha  wheeled  suddenly  round 
on  him,  and  so  by  an  instinct  of  fe- 
male art  caught  off  its  guard  that 
face  which  she  liad  already  openly  pe- 
rused. 

This  done,  she  paused  a  moment, 
and  then  came  walking  an  inch  at  a 
time  back  to  him  ;  entered  the  porch 
thoughtfully,  and  coolly  sat  down. 
At  first  she  sat  just  opposite  Riviere, 
but  the  next  moment,  reflecting  that 
she  was  in  sight  from  the  road,  she 
slipped  into  a  corner,  and  there  an- 
chored. Riviere  opi'iicd  his  eyes,  and 
while  she  was  settling  her  skirts  he 
was  puzzling  his  little  head. 

"  How  odd,"  thought  he.  "  So 
long  as  I  asked  her  to  sit  down,  it 
was  always,  '  No,  I  am  going.' " 

"  Yes,  my  friend,  you  have  divined 
it!" 

"  0,  have  I  ?  —  ah,  yes  —  divined 
what  1  " 

"  That  I  am  going  to  tell  you  the 
truth.  Your  face  as  well  as  your 
words  is  the  cause  ;  O  yes,  I  will  tell 
you  all !  " 

"  Is  it  about  Bcaurepaire?  " 

"  Yes." 

"But  you  did  tell  me  all;  those 
were  your  very  words." 

"  It  is  possible;  but  all  I  told  you 
was  —  inexact." 

"  O  no,  Jacintha,  that  cannot  be.  I 
felt  truth  in  every  tone  of  your  voice." 

"  That  was  because  you  are  true, 
and  innocent,  and  pure.  Forgive  me 
for  not  reading  vou  at  a  glance.  Now 
I  will  tell  you  all." 

"  O  do !  pray  do  !  " 

"  Listen  then  !  ah,  my  friend,  swear 
to  me  by  tliat  sainted  woman,  your 
mother,  that  you  will  never  reveal 
what  I  trust  you  with  at  this  mo- 
ment !  " 

"  Jacintha,  I  swear  by  my  mother 
to  keep  your  secret." 


24 


WHITE  LIES. 


"  Then,  mj'  poor  frieml,  what  Dard 
told  you  was  not  ahogctlier  false." 

"  Good  Heavens  !  Jacintha." 

"  Though  it  was  but  a  guess  on  his 
part;  for  I  never  trusted  my  own 
sweetheart  as  now  I  trust  a  stranger. 

"  You  that  have  shown  such  good 
sentiments  towards  us,  O,  hear  and 
then  tell  me,  can  nothing  be  done  1 

"No,  don't  speak  to  me,  —  let  me 
go  on  before  my  courage  dies  ;  yes, 
share  this  secret  with  me,  for  it  gnaws 
me,  it  chokes  me. 

"  To  see  what  I  see  every  day,  and 
do  what  I  do,  and  have  no  one  I  dare 
breathe  a  word  to  ;  O,  it  is  very  hard. 

"  Nevertheless,  see  on  what  a  thread 
things  turn  :  if  one  had  told  me  an 
hour  ago  it  was  you  I  should  open 
my  heart  to  ! 

"  M}^  child,  my  dear  old  mistress, 
and  my  sweet  young  ladies  are  — 
ah  !   no  I  can't !  I  can't ! 

"  What  a  poltroon  I  am.  Yes ! 
thank  you,  your  hand  in  mine  gives 
me  courage  :  I  hope  I  am  not  doing 
ill.  They  are  not  economical.  They 
are  not  stingy.  They  are  not  paying 
off  their  debts.  My  friend,  the  bar- 
oness and  the  demoiselles  de  Bcaure- 
paire  — arc  paupers." 


CHAPTER,  in. 

"  Paupers  1" 

"Alas!" 

"Members  of  the  nobility  pau- 
pers ? " 

"  Yes  ;  for  their  debts  are  greater 
than  their  means  ;  they  live  by  suffer- 
ance, —  they  lie  at  the  mercy  of  the 
law,  and  of  their  creditors  ;  and  every 
now  and  then  these  monsters  threaten 
us,  though  they  know  we  struggle  to 
give  them  their  due." 

"  What  do  they  threaten  1  " 

"  To  petition  government  to  sell 
the  chateau  and  lands,  and  pay  tliem, 
—  the  wretches  !  " 

"  The  hogs  !  " 

"  And  then,  the  Avorst  of  it  is,  the 
family  can't  do   anything  the    least 


little  bit  mean.  I  was  in  the  room 
when  M.  Perrin,  the  notary,  gave  the 
baroness  a  hint  to  cut  down  every 
tree  on  the  estate,  and  sell  the  timber, 
and  lay  by  the  money  for  her  own 
use.  She  heai-d  him  out,  and  then, 
O,  the  look  she  gave  him,  —  it  with- 
ered hini  up  on  his  chair. 

"  '  I  roh  my  husband's  and  my  Jo- 
sephine's estate  of  its  beauty!  cut 
down  the  old  trees  that  show  the 
chateau  is  not  a  thing  of  yesterday, 
like  your  Directory,  your  Republic, 
and  your  guillotine  ! ' 

"  So  then.  Monsieur  Perrin,  to 
soften  her,  said  :  '  No,  madame,  spare 
the  ancient  oak  of  course,  and  in- 
deed all  the  very  old  trees ;  but  sell 
the  others.' 

"  '  The  others  ?  what,  the  trees 
that  my  own  husband  planted  1  and 
why  not  knock  down  my  little  oratory 
in  the  park, — he  built  it.  The 
stones  would  sell  for  something,  —  so 
would  Josephine's  hair  and  Laure's. 
You  do  not  know,  perhaps,  each 
of  those  young  ladies  there  can  sit 
down  upon  her  back  hair.  Mon- 
sicui",  I  will  neither  strip  the  glory 
from  my  daughters'  heads,  nor  from 
the  ancient  lands  of  Beaurepaire,  — 
nor  hallow  some  Republican's  barn, 
pigsty,  or  dwelling-house,  with  the 
stones  of  the  sacred  place  where  I 
pray  for  my  husband's  soul.' 

"  Those  were  her  words.  She  had 
been  sitting  quite  quiet  like  a  cat, 
watching  for  him.  She  rose  up  to 
speak,  and  those  words  came  from  her 
like  puffs  of  flame  from  a  furnace. 
You  could  not  forget  one  of  them  if 
you  lived  ever  so  long.  He  has  n't 
come  to  see  us  since  then,  and  it 's  six 
montiis  ago." 

"  I  call  it  false  pride,  Jacintha." 

"  Do  you  1  then  I  don't,"  said  Ja- 
cintha, firing  np. 

"  Well,  no  matter  ;  tell  me  more." 

"  I  will  tell  you  all.  I  have  prom- 
ised." 

"  Is  it  true  about  the  beans  ?  " 

"  It  is  too  true." 

"  But  this  coffee  that  3'ou  have  just 
bought  1  " 


^^H1TE   LIES. 


25 


"  I  have  not  bouglit  it ;  I  have  em- 1 
bezzled  it.  Every  now  and  then  I 
take  a  bunch  of  grapes  from  the  con- 
servatory. I  give  it  to  the  grocer's 
wife.  Then  she  gives  me  a  little  cof- 
fee, and  says  to  herself,  '  That  girl  is 
a  thief.' " 

"  More  fool  she.  She  says  nothing 
of  the  sort,  you  spiteful  girl." 

"  Then  I  secretly  flavor  my  poor 
mistress's  breakfast  with  it." 

"  Secretly  ?  But  you  tell  Made- 
moiselle Laiire." 

"  How  innocent  you  are  !  —  Don't 
you  see  tha,t  she  roasts  beans  that  her 
mother  may  still  think  she  drinks  cof- 
fee ;  and  that  I  flavor  her  rubbish  on 
the  sly,  that  Mademoiselle  Laure  may 
fancy  her  beans  have  really  a  twang 
of  coflPee  ;  and,  for  aught  1  know,  the 
baroness  sees  through  us  both,  and 
smacks  her  lips  over  the  draught  to 
make  us  all  happy  ;  for  women  are 
very  deep,  my  young  monsieur, —  you 
have  no  idea  how  deep  they  are.  Yes, 
at  Beaurepaire  we  all  love  and  deceive 
one  another." 

"  You  make  my  heart  sick.  Then 
it  was  untrue  about  the  wine  ?  " 

"  No,  it  was  not ;  we  have  plenty 
of  that.  The  baron  left  the  cellar 
brimful  of  wine.  There  is  enough 
to  last  us  all  our  lives  ;  and,  while  we 
have  it,  we  will  give  it  to  the  brave 
and  the  poor." 

"And  pinch  yourselves?  " 

"  And  pinch  ourselves." 

"  Why  don't  they  swap  the  wine 
for  necessaries  ?  " 

"  Because  they  could  not  do  a  mean 
thing." 

"  Where  is  the  meanness  ?  Am  I 
the  man  to  advise  a  mean  thing  1 " 

"  Ah,  no,  monsieur.  Well,  then, 
they  won't  do  a  thing  other  barons  of 
Beaurepaire  never  did  ;  and  that  is 
why  they  sit  down  to  a  good  bottle  of 
wine  from  their  own  cellar,  and  to 
grapes  and  peaches  from  their  own 
garden,  and  even  trutfles  from  their 
own  beech  coppice,  and  good  cream 
from  their  own  cow,  and  scarce  two 
sous'  worth  of  bresid,  and  butcher's 
meat  not  once  a  fortnight." 
o 


"  In  short,  they  eat  fifteen  francs* 
worth  of  luxuries,  and  so  have  not  tea 
sous  for  wholesome  food." 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"  Yes,  monsieur  1  "  cried  Riviere, 
spitefully  mocking  her;  "and  don't 
you  see  this  is  not  economy,  but  ex- 
travagance ?  Don't  you  see  it  is  their 
duty  as  well  as  their  interest  to  sell 
their  wine,  or  some  of  it,  and  their 
fruit,  and  buy  eatables,  and  even  put 
by  money  to  pay  their  debts  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  if  they  were  vulgar 
people  ;  but  these  are  not  grocers  nor 
cheap  Johns  ;  tliese  are  the  high  noblesse 
of  France." 

"  These  are  a  pack  of  fools,"  roared 
the  irritated  Republican,  "  and  yoa 
are  as  bad  as  they." 

"  I  do  not  assert  the  contrary,"  re- 
plied Jacintha,  humbly  and  lovingly, 
disarming  his  wrath  with  a  turn  of 
the  tongue.  "My  friend,"  she  con- 
tinued in  the  same  tone,  "  at  present 
our  cow  is  in  full  milk ;  so  that  is  a 
great  help  ;  but  when  she  goes  dry, 
God  knows  what  we  shall  do,  for  I 
don't."  And  Jacintha  turned  a  face 
so  full  of  sorrow  on  him,  that  he  was 
ashamed  of  having  been  in  a  rage 
with  her  absurdity. 

"  And  then  to  come  by  and  hear 
my  own  sweetheart,  that  ought  to  be 
on  m}'  side,  running  down  those  saints 
and  martyrs  to  a  stran — ,  to  our  best 
friend." 

"  Poor  Jacintha !  " 

"  O  no  ;  don't,  don't !  already  it  costs 
me  a  great  struggle  not  to  give  way." 

"  Indeed  !  you  tremble." 

"Like  enough, — it  is  the  nerves. 
Take  no  notice,  or  I  could  not  answer 
for  myself  My  heart  is  like  a  lump 
of  lead  in  my  bosom  at  this  hour. 
No  !  it  is  not  so  much  for  what  goes 
on  up  at  the  chateau.  Tliat  will  not 
kill  them.  Love  nourishes  as  well  as 
food  ;  and  we  all  love  one  another  at 
Beaurepaire.  It  is  for  the  whisper 
I  have  just  heard  in  the  village." 

"  What  ?  —  what  ?  " 

"  That  one  of  these  cruel  creditors 
is  going  to  have  the  estate  and  chateau 
sold." 


26 


WHITE  LIES. 


"  Curse  him  !  " 

"  He  might  as  well  send  for  the 
{guillotine  and  take  their  lives  at  once. 
You  look  at  me.  You  don't  know 
my  mistress  as  I  do.  Ah  !  butchers, 
ifitisso,  you  will  take  nothing  out 
of  that  house  but  her  corpse.  And  is 
it  come  to  this  ?  The  great  old  fami- 
ly to  be  turned  adrift  like  beggars  to 
wander  over  the  world  "?  O,  my  poor 
mistress  '.  O,  my  pretty  demoiselles  ! 
that  I  played  with  and  nursed  ever 
since  I  was  a  child  !  —  I  was  just  six 
when  Josephine  was  born,  —  and  that 
I  shall  love  till  my  last  breath." 

The  young  woman,  torn  by  the 
violence  of  a  feeling  so  long  pent  up 
in  her  own  bosom,  fell  to  panting,  and 
laughing,  and  sobbing,  and  trembling 
violently. 

The  statesman,  who  had  passed  all 
his  short  life  at  school  and  college,  was 
frightened  out  of  his  wits,  and  ran  to 
her  side,  and  took  hold  of  her  and 
pulled  her,  and  cried,  "  0,  don't, 
Jacintha;  you  will  kill  yourself,  )-ou 
will  die! — this  is  frightful,  —  help 
here !  help  !  " 

Jacintha  put  her  hand  to  his  mouth, 
and,  without  leaving  off  her  hyster- 
ics, gasped  out,  "  Ah !  don't  expose 
me." 

So  then  he  did  n't  know  what  to 
do  ;  but  he  seized  a  tumbler,  and  with 
trembling  hand  filled  it  with  wine, 
and  threw  himself  on  his  knees,  and 
forced  it  between  her  lips.  All  she 
did  was  to  bite  a  piece  out  of  the 
glass  as  clean  as  if  a  diamond  had  cut 
it.  This  did  her  good,  —  destruction 
of  sacred  household  property  gave  her 
another  turn.  "  There,  I  've  broke 
your  glass  now,"  she  cried  with  a 
marvellous  change  of  tone ;  and  she 
came  to,  and  sobbed  and  cried 
reasonably. 

The  other  young  thing  of  the  ten- 
der, though  impetuous  heart,  set  to 
comfort  her. 

"  Poor  Jacintha  !  dear  Jacintha  ! 
I  will  be  a  friend  both  to  them  and 
you.  There  is  a  kiss  not  to  cry  so." 
Oh,  oh,  oh  !  And  lo,  and  behold  !  he 
burst  out  crying  himself. 


This  gave  Jacintha  another  turn, 

"  O  my  son  !  don't  you  cry  !  I 
will  never  s-s-sufiFer  that." 

"  How  can  I  help  it  ?  Oh  !  It  is 
you  make  me,  —  sobbing  and  weep- 
ing like  that." 

"  Forgive  me,  little  heart.  I  will 
be  m-more  reasonable,  not  to  afflict 
you.  O,  see,  I  leave  otf !  Oh !  I 
will  take  the  wine." 

Edouard  put  the  other  side  of  the 
glass  to  her  lips,  and  she  supped  a 
teaspoonful  of  the  wine.  This  was 
her  native  politeness,  not  to  slight  a 
remedy  he  had  offered.  Then  he  put 
down  the  glass,  and  she  drew  his  head 
lightly  to  her  bosom,  and  he  felt  her 
quietly  crying.  She  was  touched  to 
the  core  by  his  sympathy.  As  for 
him,  he  was  already  ashamed  of  the 
weakness  he  could  not  quite  master, 
and  was  not  sorry  to  hide  liis  face  so 
agreeably. 

"O  dear!  Now  —  oh!  —  you  are 
not  to  fancy  (I  can  hear  your  heart 
beat  where  I  am,  Jacintha)  /  ever 
cry.  I  have  not  done  such  a  con- 
temptible thing  since  I  was  a  boy." 

"  I  believe  it.  Forgive  me.  It  was 
all  my  fault.  It  is  no  discredit. 
Ah !  no,  my  son  ;  those  tears  do  you 
honor,  and  make  the  poor  Jacintha 
your  friend." 

These  foolish  drops  did  not  long 
quench  our  statesman's  and  puppy's 
manly  ardor. 

"  Come,  come  !  "  he  cried,  "let  us 
do  something,  not  sit  blubbering." 

"  Ah !  if  we  could  do  anything," 
cried  Jacintha,  catching  fire  at  him. 

"  Why,  of  course  we  can.  People 
never  know  what  they  can  do  till 
they  try.  /shall  think  of  something, 
you  may  depend."    (Vanity revived.) 

"  And  I  must  run  to  Beaurepaire ; 
they  will  tliink  I  am  lost." 

"  O  Jacintha  !  " 

"What?" 

"  You  will  take  some  of  the  game 
now." 

"  That  I  will  —  from  you." 

"  Thank  you.  Quick  —  quick  — 
for  goodness'  sake.  Here,  take  these 
four   birds.     That   is  right;   pin   up 


WHITE  LIES. 


27 


your  apron, — that  makes  a  capital 
pocket." 

"  The  hare  would  be  more  nourish- 
ing than  the  birds,"  said  Jacintha, 
timidly. 

"  You  arc  to  have  the  hare  as  well, 
of  course ;  send  me  down  Dard ;  he 
sliall  take  her  up." 

"  No  !  no  !  Dard  and  I  are  bad 
friends.  I  will  ask  no  favor  of  him. 
He  shall  be  my  suppliant  all  this  day, 
not  I  his.  Look  at  my  arm,  do  you 
think  that  is  afraid  of  a  hare  ?  " 

"  Why,  it  is  half  as  big  again  as 
mine,  Jacintha ;  for  all  that,  I  shall 
carry  the  hare  up  in  my  pocket. 
France  is  still  France,  whatever  you 
may  think  ;  a  pretty  woman  must  not 
be  let  drag  a  hare  about  the  nation  ; 
come  —  " 

"  Surely,  monsieur  does  not  think 
of  accompanying  me  ! " 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  O,  as  for  that,  I  am  no  prude, 

—  it  is  a  road,  too,  on  which  one 
meets  no  one,  —  ah  bah  !  if  you  are 
not  ashamed  of  me,  I  am  not  of  you, 

—  allons." 

They  walked  up  tlie  road  in  silence. 
Riviere  had  something  on  his  mind, 
and  Jacintha  was  demurely  watching 
for  it  out  of  the  tail  of  her  eye.  At 
last,  ashamed  of  going  along  and  not 
saying  a  word  to  rustic  Hebe,  he 
dropped  out  this  in  an  absent  sort  of 
way  :  "  I  shall  never  know  by  your 
manner  whether  you  are  telling  the 
truth  or  —  the  reverse."     No  answer. 

"  You  do  it  beautifully."  No  an- 
swer. 

"  So  smooth  and  convincing."  No 
answer. 

"  Seriously,  then,  I  used  to  think 
it  a  crime,  a  sordid  vice,  —  but  now  I 
oee  that  even  a  falsehood,  coming 
from  a  pure  heart,  is  purified,  and  be- 
comes virtuous,  pious." 

"  Never ! " 

"And  useful." 

"  What  use  were  mine  ?  I  had  to 
unpick  them  the  next  minute,  —  and 
do  you  think  I  did  not  blush  like  fire 
while  I  was  eating  my  own  words  one 
after  another  ?  " 


"  I  did  not  sec  you." 

"  A  sign  I  blushed  inside,  and  that 
is  worse.  My  young  monsieur,"  con- 
tinued Jacintha,  gravely,  "  listen  to 
me.  A  lie  is  always  two  things,  —  a 
lump  of  sin,  and  a  piece  of  folly. 
Yes  !  women  are  readier  and  smooth- 
er at  that  sort  of  work  than  men,  — 
all  the  worse  for  them.  Men  lie  at 
times  to  gain  some  end  they  are  hard 
bent  on ;  but  their  instinct  is  to  tell 
the  truth,  those  that  are  men  at  all. 
But  women,  especially  uneducated 
ones  like  me,  run  to  a  lie  the  first 
thing,  like  rats  to  a  hole.  Now,  mark 
the  consequence  :  Avomen  suffer  many 
troubles,  great  and  small ;  half  of 
these  come  to  them  by  the  will  of 
God ;  but  the  other  half  they  make 
for  themselves  by  their  silly  want  of 
truth  and  candor  —  there  !" 

"  Bless  my  soul !  here  is  a  sermon. 
Why,  how  earnest  you  are  ! " 

"  Yes,  I  am  in  earnest,  and  you 
should  not  mock  me.  Consider,  1  am 
many  years  older  than  you,  —  you  are 
not  twenty,  I  think,  and  I  am  close 
upon  five-and-twenty,  —  and  I  have 
seen  ten  times  as  much  life  as  you, 
though  I  have  lived  in  a  village." 

"  l3on't  be  angry,  Jacintha ;  I  listen 
to  every  word." 

"  I  am  in  earnest,  my  friend,  be- 
cause you  terrified  me  when  you 
smirked  like  that  and  talked  of  beauti- 
ful lies,  pious  lies,  (why  not  clean 
filth  1  )  and  then  quoted  me  to  prove 
it.  Innocence  is  so  easily  corrupted. 
And  I  could  not  sleep  at  night  if  my 
tongue  had  corrupted  one  so  innocent 
and  good  and  young  as  you,  my 
dear." 

"  Now,  don't  you  be  alarmed," 
cried  the  statesboy,  haughtily,  "  you 
need  not  fear  that  I  shall  ever  take 
after  women  in  that  or  anything 
else." 

"  Mind  they  will  be  the  first  to  de- 
spise you  if  you  do,  —  that  is  their  way, 
—  it  is  one  of  them  that  tells  you  so." 

"  Set  your  mind  at  ease,  fair  moral- 
ist ;  I  shall  think  of  your  precepts. 
I  will  even  note  down  one  of  the  bril- 
liant things  you  said";  and  he  took 


28 


WHITE  LIES. 


out  his  tablets.  " '  A  lie  is  a  —  lump 
of  sin,  and  a  bit — no  —  a  piece  of 
folly  eh  ? '  " 

"  That  is  it !  "  cried  Jacintha,  gayly, 
her  anxiety  removed. 

"  I  did  not  think  you  were  five-and- 
twcnty,  though." 

"  I "  am  then,  —  don't  you  believe 
me?" 

"  Why  not  1  Indeed  how  could  I 
disbelieve  you  after  your  lecture  1  " 

"  It  is  well,"  said"  Jacintha,  with 
dignity. 

She  was  twenty-seven  by  the  parish 
books. 

Riviere  relapsed  into  his  revery. 

This  time  it  was  Jacintha  who 
spoke  first. 

"  You  forgive  mc  for  breaking  the 
glass,  monsieur,  and  making  you 
cry  ?  " 

"  Bother  the  glass,  —  what  little 
things  to  think  of;  while  I  —  and  as 
for  the  other  business  —  you  did  it 
fiiirly ;  you  made  a  fool  of  me,  but 
you  began  with  yourself,  — please  to 
remember  that." 

"  0,  a  woman  cries  as  she  spits, 
—  that  goes  for  nothing, — but  it  is 
not  fair  of  her  to  make  a  man  cry  just 
because  he  has  a  feeling  heart." 

"  Stop  !  —  'A  woman  —  cries  —  as 
she  spits  ! '  Why,  Jacintha,  that  is 
rather  a  coarse  sentiment  to  come 
from  you,  who  say  such  beautiful 
things,  and  such  wise  things  —  now 
and  then." 

"  What  would  3'ou  have  1 "  re- 
plied Jacintha,  with  sudden  humility. 
"  When  all  is  done  I  am  but  a  domes- 
tic ;  I  am  not  an  instructed  person." 

"  On  reflection,  if  coarse,  it  is  suc- 
cinct I  had  better  note  it  down  with 
the  other  —  no  —  I  shall  remember 
this  one  without." 

"  You  may  take  your  oath  of  that. 
Good  things"  have  to  be  engraved  on 
the  memory,  —  bad  ones  stick  there  of 
themselves.  Monsieur,  we  are  now 
near  Beaurepaire." 
"  So  I  see.  Well  f  " 
"  I  don't  come  out  every  day,  —  if 
monsieur  has  anything  important  to 
gay  to  me,  now  is  surely  the  time." 


"  Ah  !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  all  this  chat  is  not 
what  you  want  to  say  to  me.  There 
is  something  you  have  half  a  mind  to 
tell  Jacintha,  and  half  a  mind  not. 
Do  you  think  I  can't  read  your  face 
by  this  time  ?  There,  I  stop  to  hear 
it  before  it  is  too  late.  Come,  out 
with  it." 

"  It  is  all  very  well  to  say  oat  with 
it,  but  I  have  not  the  courage." 

"  It  is  then  that  you  do  not  feel  I 
am  your  friend." 

"  Don't  speak  so,  and  don't  look 
so  kindlv,  or  I  shall  tell  you.  Jacin- 
tha—"" 

"  My  child." 

"  It  is  going  to  be  secret  for  se- 
cret between  us  two,  —  is  not  that 
nice  1  " 

"Delicious!" 

"  Ay  ;  but  you  must  swear  as  I  did, 
for  my  secret  is  as  important  as  yours, 

—  every  bit." 
"  I  swear !  " 

"  Then,  Jacintha,  I  am  in  love !  " 

And,  having  made  the  confession 
blushing,  he  smiled  a  little  pompous- 
ly, for  he  felt  it  was  a  step  that 
stamped  him  a  man. 

Jacintha's  face  expanded  with  sa- 
cred joy  at  the  prospect  of  a  love  af- 
fair ;  then  she  laughed  at  his  conceit 
in  fancying  a  boy's  love  could  be  as 
grave  a  secret  as  hers ;  finally  she 
lowered  her  voice  to  a  whisper,  though 
no  creature  was  in  sight. 

"  Who  is  it,  dear  ?  "  and  her  eye 
twinkled,  and  her  ear  cocked,  and  all 
the  woman  bristled. 

"  Jacintha,  can't  you  guess  ?  "  and 
he  looked  down. 

"  Me  "?  How  should  I  know  which 
way  your  fancy  lies  1 " 

But  even  as  she  said  these  words 
her  eye  seemed  to  give  a  flash  in- 
wards, and  her  vivid  intelligence 
seized  the  clew  in  a  moment. 

"I  was  blind  !  "  she  screamed,  "  I 
was  blind  !  It 's  my  young  lady.  I 
thought  it  was  very  odd  you  should 
cry  for  me,  and  take  such  an  interest, 

—  ah !  rogue  with  the  face  of  inno- 
cence.    But  how  and  where  was  it 


WHITE  LIES. 


29 


done'?  They  nc^cr  dine  from  home. 
You  have  not  been  two  months   here, 

—  that  is  what  put  me  off  the  very 
idea  of  such  a  thing.  Tlie  saints 
forgive  us,  he  has  fallen  in  love  with 
her  in  church !  " 

"  No,  no.  Why,  I  have  met  her 
eleven  times  out  walking  with  her 
sister,  stupid,  and  twice  she  smiled 
on  me.  O  Jacintha  !  a  smile  such  as 
angels  smile,  —  a  smile  to  warm  the 
heart  and  purify  the  soul  and  last 
forever  in  the  mind." 

"  Well,  I  have  heard  say  that 
'  man  is  .fire  and  woman  tow,'  but 
this  beats  all.     Ha  !  ha !  " 

"  0,  do  not  jest !  I  did  not  laugh 
at  you." 

"  I  will  not  be  so  cruel,  so  ungrate- 
ful, as  to  jest.     Still,  —he !  he  !  " 

"  No,  Jacintha,  it  is  no  laughing 
matter;  I  revere  her  as  mortals  revere 
the  saints.  I  love  her  so,  that,  were  I 
ever  to  lose  all  hope  of  her,  I  would 
not  live  a  day.  And  now  that  j-ou 
have  told  me  she  is  poor  and  in  sor- 
row, and  I  think  of  her  walking  so 
calm  and  gentle,  —  always  in  black, 
Jacintha,  —  and  her  low  courtesy  to 
me  whenever  we  met,  and  her  sweet 
smile  to  me  though  her  heart  must 
be  sad,  oh  !  my  heart  yearns  for  her. 
What  can  I  do  for  her  ?  How  shall 
I  surround  her  with  myself  unseen, 

—  make  her  feel  that  a  man's  love 
waits  upon  her  feet  every  step  she 
takes,  —  that  a  man's  love  floats  in 
the  air  round  that  lovely  head.  And 
0  Jacintha !  if  some  day  she  should 
deign  to  ask,  '  Who  is  this,  whom  as 
yet  I  know  only  by  his  devotion  ? '  " 

"  She  will  ask  that  question  much 
earlier  than  you  seem  to  think,  Inno- 
cence." 

"  Will  she  ?  bless  you,  Jacintha  ; 
but  it  is  ungenerous  to  think  of  the 
reward  for  loving.  0  no,  I  will  en- 
tertain no  selfish  motives,  I  will  love 
and  prove  my  love  whether  there  is 
any  hope  for  me  or  not ;  dear  Ja- 
cintha, is  there  any  hope  for  me,  do 
you  tliink?  " 

Now  Jacintha  could  not  help  fear- 
ing   there   was   very  little,  but    her 


heart  and  his  earnest  face  looking 
into  iiers  would  not  let  her  say  so. 

"  There  is  hope  for  all  men,"  said 
she.  "  I  will  do  all  I  can  for  you, 
and  tell  you  all  I  see  ;  but  after  all 
it  must  depend  on  yourself;  only  I 
may  hinder  you  from  going  at  it  in 
a  hurry  and  spilling  the  milk  for- 
ever. After  all,"  she  continued, 
looking  at  the  case  more  hopefully, 
"  the  way  to  win  such  ladies  as  mine 
is  to  deserve  them,  —  not  one  in  fifty 
men  deserves  such  as  they  are,  but 
you  do.  There  is  not  a  woman  in 
the  world  that  is  too  good  for  you." 

"  Ah,  Jacintha,  that  is  nonsense.  I 
deeply  feel  my  inferiority." 

"  And  if  you  were,  you  would  n't," 
cried  the  sententious  maid,  one  of 
whose  secret  maxims  appears  to  have 
been  "  point  before  grammar." 

"  Jacintha,  before  I  go,  remember, 
if  anything  happens  you  have  a 
friend  out  of  the  house." 

"  And  you  a  stanch  friend  in  it." 

"  Jacintha,  I  am  too  happy ;  I  feel 
to  want  to  be  alone  with  all  the 
tiioughts  that  throng  on  me.  Good 
by,  Jacintha  "  ;  and  lie  was  oft'  like  a 
rocket. 

"  My  hare  !  my  hare  !  my  hare  !  " 
screeched  Jacintha,  on  the  ascending 
scale. 

"  0  you  dear  girl !  you  remember 
all  the  little  things ;  my  head  is  in  a 
whirl, — come  out,  hare." 

"No!"  said  Jacintha.  "You 
take  her  round  by  the  back  wall  and 
fling  her  over." 

Jacintha  gave  this  order  in  a  new 
tone,  —  it  was  pleasant ;  but  there  was 
a  little  air  of  authority  now  that 
seemed  to  say  :  "I  have  got  your 
secret;  you  are  in  my  power,  you 
must  obey  me  now,  my  son  ;  or  — " 

Riviere  did  as  ordered,  and  when 
he  came  back  Jacintha  was  already 
within  the  grounds  of  Beaurepaire. 
She  turned  and  put  a  finger  to  her 
lips,  to  imply  dead  secrecy  on  both 
sides  ;  he  did  the  same,  and  so  the  vile 
conspirators  parted. 

Puppies,  like  prisoners  and  a  dozen 
other   classes,   are  of   many  classes 


30 


WHITE  LIES. 


stupidly  confounded  under  one  name 
by  those  cuckoos  that  chatter  and 
scribble  us  dead,  but  never  think. 
There  is  the  commonplace  young 
puppy,  who  is  only  a  puppy  because 
he  is  young.  The  fate  of  this  is  to 
outgrow  his  puppydom,  and  be  an  av- 
erage man,  —  sometimes  wise,  some- 
times silly,  and  on  the  whole  neither 
good  nor  bad.  Sir  John  Guise  was 
a  puppy  of  this  sort  in  his  youth- 
ful day.  I  am  sure  of  it.  He  end- 
ed a  harmless  biped  :  witness  his  epi- 
taph :  — 

HERE    LIES 

Sir  John  Guise. 
No  one  laughs ; 
No  one  cries. 
AVhere  he  is  gone, 
And  how  he  fares, 
No  one  knows, 
And  no  one  cares. 

There  is  the  vacant  puppy,  empty  of 
everything  but  egoism,  and  its  skin 
full  to  bursting  of  that.  Eye,  the 
color  of  which  looks  washed  out ; 
much  nose, — little  forehead,  —  long 
ears. 

Young  lady,  has  this  sort  of  thing 
been  asking  you  to  share  its  home 
and  gizzard  ?  On  receipt  of  these 
presents  say  "  No,"  and  ten  years 
after  go  on  your  bended  knees  and 
bless  me !  Men  laugh  at  and  kick 
this  animal  by  turns ;  but  it  is  wo- 
man's executioner.  Old  age  will  do 
nothing  for  this  but  turn  it  from  a  self- 
ish whelp  to  a  surly  old  dog.  Unless 
Religion  steps  in,  whose  daily  woi'k  is 
miracles. 

There  is  the  good-hearted,  intel- 
ligent puppy.  Ah!  poor  soul,  he 
runs  tremeniious  risks. 

Any  day  he  is  liable  to  turn  a  hero, 
a  wit,  a  saint,  an  useful  man. 

Half  the  heroes  that  have  fallen 
nobly  fighting  for  their  country  in 
this  war  and  the  last,  or  have  come 
back  scarred,  maimed,  and  glorious, 
were  puppies ;  smoking,  drawling, 
dancing  from  town  to  town,  and  spur- 
ring the  ladies'  dresses. 

Thev  changed  with  circumstances, 
and  without  difficulty. 

Our  good-hearted,  intelligent  puppy 


went  from  this  interview  with  a  ser- 
vant-girl—  a  man. 

He  took  to  his  bosom  a  great  and 
tender  feeling  that  never  yet  failed  to 
ennoble  and  enlarge  the  heart  and 
double  the  understanding. 

She  he  loved  was  sad,  was  poor, 
was  menaced  by  many  ills  ;  then  she 
needed  a  champion.  He  would  be 
her  unseen  friend,  her  guardian  angel. 
A  hundred  wild  schemes  whirled  in 
his  beating  heart  and  brain,  as  he 
went  home  on  wings.  He  could  not 
go  in-doors.  He  made  for  a  green 
lane  he  knew  at  the  back  of  the  vil- 
lage, and  there  he  walked  up  and 
down  for  hours.  The  sun  set,  and 
the  night  came,  and  the  stars  glit- 
tered; but  still  he  walked  alone,  in- 
spired, exalted,  full  of  generous  and 
loving  schemes,  and  sweet  and  tender 
fancies :  a  heart  on  fire ;  and  youth 
the  fuel,  and  the  flame  vestal. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

This  day,  so  eventful  to  our  ex- 
puppy's  heart,  was  a  sad  one  up  at 
Beaurepaire. 

It  was  the  anniversary  of  the  baron's 
death. 

The  baroness  kept  her  room  all  the 
morning,  and  took  no  nourishment 
but  one  cup  of  spurious  coffee  Laure 
brought  her.  At  one  o'clock  she 
came  down  stairs.  She  did  not  enter 
the  sitting-room.  In  the  hall  she 
found  two  chaplets  of  flowers ;  they 
were  always  placed  there  for  her  on 
this  sad  day.  She  took  them  in  her 
hand,  and  went  into  the  park.  Her 
daughters  watched  her  from  the  win- 
dow. She  went  to  the  little  oratory 
that  was  in  the  park  ;  there  she  found 
two  wax  candles  burning,  and  two 
fresh  chaplets  hung  up.  Her  daugh- 
ters had  been  there  before  her. 

She  knelt  and  prayed  many  hours 
for  her  husband's  soul ;  then  she  rose 
and  hung  up  one  chaplet  and  came 
slowly  away  with  the  other  in  her 
hand. 


WHITE   LIES. 


31 


At  the  gate  of  the  park  filial  love 
met  her  as  Josephine,  and  filial  love 
as  Laure  watched  the  meeting  from 
the  window. 

Josephine  came  towards  her  with 
tender  anxiety  in  her  sapphire  eyes, 
and  wreathed  her  arms  round  her, 
and  whispered  half  inquiringly,  half 
reproachfully  :  — 

"  You  have  your  children  still." 

The  baroness  kissed  her  and  re- 
plied with  a  half-guilty  manner :  — 

"No,  Josephine,  I  did  not  pray  to 
leave  you,  — till  you  are  happy." 

"  We  arp  not  unhappy  while  we 
have  our  mother,"  replied  Josephine, 
all  love  and  no  logic. 

They  came  towards  the  house  to- 
gether, the  baroness  leaning  gently  on 
her  daughter's  elbow. 

Between  the  park  and  the  angle  of 
the  chateau  was  a  small  plot  of  turf 
called  at  Beaurepaire  the  Pleasance, 
a  name  that  had  descended  along 
with  other  traditions ;  and  in  the 
centre  of  this  Pleasance  or  Pleasaunce 
stood  a  wonderful  oak-tree.  Its  cir- 
cumference was  thirty-four  feet. 

The  baroness  came  to  this  ancient 
tree,  her  chaplet  in  her  hand. 

The  tree  had  a  mutilated  limb  that 
pointed  towards  the  house.  The 
baroness  hung  her  chaplet  on  this 
stump. 

The  sun  was  setting  tranquil  and 
red ;  a  broad  ruby  streak  lingered  on 
the  deep  green  leaves  of  the  prodi- 
gious oak. 

The  baroness  looked  at  it  awhile 
in  silence. 

Then  she  spoke  slowly  to  the  oak, 
and  said, — 

"You  were  here  before  us,  —  you 
will  be  here  when  we  are  gone." 

A  spasm  crossed  Josephine's  face, 
but  she  said  nothing. 

They  went  in  together. 

We  will  follow  them.  But  first, 
ere  the  sun  is  set,  stay  a  few  minutes 
and  look  at  the  Beaurepaire  oak, 
while  I  tell  you  the  little  men  knew 
about  it,  not  the  thousandth  part  of 
what  it  could  have  told  if  trees  could 
speak  as  well  as  breathe. 


The  baroness  did  not  exaggerate. 
The  tree  was  somewhat  older  than 
even  this  ancient  family.  There  was 
a  chain  of  family  documents,  several 
of  which  related  incidents  in  which 
this  tree  played  a  part. 

The  oldest  of  these  manuscripts  was 
written  by  a  monk,  a  younger  son  of 
the  house,  about  five  hundred  years 
before  our  story.  This  would  not 
have  helped  us  much,  but  luckily  the 
good  monk  was  at  the  pains  to  collect 
all  the  oral  traditions  about  it  that 
had  come  down  from  a  far  more  re- 
mote antiquity,  and,  like  a  sensible 
man,  arrested  and  solidified  them  by 
the  pen.  He  had  a  superstitious 
reverence  for  the  tree ;  and  probably 
this  too  came  down  to  him  from  his 
ancestors,  as  it  was  certainly  trans- 
mitted by  him  to  the  chroniclers  that 
succeeded  him. 

The  sum  of  all  is  this. 

The  first  Baron  of  Beaurepaire  had 
pitched  his  tent  under  a  fair  oak-tree 
that  stood  prope  rivuin,  —  near  a  brook. 
He  afterwards  built  a  square  tower 
hard  by,  and  dug  a  moat  that  en- 
closed both  tree  and  tower  and  re- 
ceived the  waters  of  the  brook  afore- 
said. These  particulars  corresponded 
too  exactly  with  the  present  face  of 
things  and  the  intermediate  accounts, 
to  leave  a  doubt  that  this  was  the 
same  tree. 

In  these  early  days  its  size  seems  to 
have  been  nothing  remarkable,  and 
this  proves  it  was  still  growing  tim- 
ber. But  a  century  and  a  half  before 
the  monk  wrote  it  had  become  famous 
in  all  the  district  for  its  girth,  and  in 
the  monk's  own  day  had  ceased  to 
grow,  but  showed  no  sign  of  decay. 
The  mutilated  arm  I  have  mentioned 
was  once  a  long  sturdy  bough  worn 
smooth  as  velvet  in  one  part  from  a 
curious  cause  :  it  ran  about  as  high 
above  the  ground  as  a  full-sized  horse, 
and  the  knights  and  squires  used  to 
be  forever  vaulting  upon  it,  the  for- 
mer in  armor  ;  the  monk  when  a  boy 
had  seen  them  do  it  a  thousand 
times. 

The  heart  of  the  tree  began  to  go, 


32 


WHITE    LIES. 


and  then  this  heavy  bough  creaked 
suspiciously.  In  those  days  tliey  did 
not  prop  a  sacred  bough  with  a  line 
of  iron  posts  as  now.  They  solved 
the  difficulty  by  cutting  this  one  off 
within  six  feet  of  the  trunk ;  two  cen- 
turies later,  the  tree  being  now  nearly 
hollow,  a  rude  iron  bracket  was 
roughly  nailed  into  the  stem,  and 
running  out  three  feet  supported  the 
knights'  bough  ;  for  so  the  mutilated 
limb  was  still  called. 

What  had  not  this  tree  seen  since 
first  it  came  green  and  tender  as  a 
cabbage  above  the  soil,  and  stood  at 
the  mercy  of  the  first  hare  or  rabbit 
that  should  choose  to  cut  short  forever 
its  frail  existence ! 

Since  then  eagles  had  perched  on 
its  crown  and  wild  boars  fed  without 
fear  of  man  upon  its  acorns.  Trou- 
badours had  sung  beneath  it  to  lords 
and  ladies  seated  around  or  walking 
on  the  grass  and  commenting  the 
minstrels'  tales  of  love  by  exchange 
of  amorous  glances. 

It  had  seen  a  Norman  duke  conquer 
England,  and  English  kings  invade 
France  and  be  crowned  at  Paris.  It 
had  seen  a  woman  put  knights  to  the 
rout,  and  seen  God  insulted  and  the 
warrior  virgin  burned  by  envious 
priests,  with  the  consent  of  the  curs 
she  had  defended  and  the  curs  she 
had  defeated. 

Mediaaval  sculptors  had  taken  its 
leaves,  and  wisely  trusting  to  Nature 
had  adorned  many  a  ciiurch  with 
those  leaves  cut  in  stone. 

Why,  in  its  old  age  it  had  seen  tlie 
rise  of  printing,  and  the  first  dawn  of 
national  civilization  in  Europe.  It 
flourished  and  decayed  in  France ; 
but  it  grew  in  Gaul.  And  more  re- 
markable still,  though  by  all  accounts 
it  is  like  to  see  the  world  to  an  end, 
it  was  a  tree  in  ancient  history  :  its 
old  age  awaits  the  millennium  :  its  first 
youth  belonged  to  that  great  tract  of 
time  which  includes  the  birth  of  Christ, 
the  building  of  Home,  and  the  siege 
of  Troy. 

The  tree  had  mingled  in  the  for- 
tunes of  the  family. 


It  had  saved  their  lives  and  taken 
their  lives.  One  Lord  of  Beaurepairc, 
hotly  pursued  by  his  feudal  enemies, 
made  for  the  tree,  and  hid  himself 
partly  by  a  great  bough,  partly  by  the 
thick  screen  of  leaves.  The  foe  dart- 
ed in,  made  sure  he  had  taken  to  the 
house,  ransacked  it,  and  got  into  the 
cellar  where  by  good  luck  was  store 
of  Malyoisie  ;  and  so  the  oak  and  the 
vine  saved  tlie  quaking  baron. 

Another  Lord  of  Beaurepairc,  he- 
sieged  in  liis  castle,  was  shot  dead  on 
the  ramparts  by  a  cross-bowman  who 
had  secreted  himself  unobserved  in 
this  tree  a  little  before  the  dawn. 

A  3'oung  heir  oFBeaurepaire,  climb- 
ing for  a  raven's  nest  to  the  top  of 
this  tree,  whose  crown  was  much 
loftier  then  than  now,  lost  his  footing 
and  fell,  and  died  at  the  foot  of  the 
tree  ;  and  his  mother  in  her  anguish 
l)ade  them  cut  down  the  tree  that  had 
killed  her  boy.  But  the  baron,  her 
husband,  refused,  and  said  what  in  the 
English  of  the  day  would  run  thus- 
"ytte  ys  eneugh  that  I  lose  mine 
Sonne,  I  will  nat  alsoe  lose  mine  Tre." 
In  the  male  the  solid  sentiment  of  the 
proprietor  outweighed  the  temporary 
irritation  of  the  parent.  Then  the 
mother,  we  are  told,  bought  fifteen 
ells  of  black  velvet,  and  stretched  a 
pall  from  the  knights'  bough  across 
the  west  side  to  another  branch,  and 
cursed  the  hand  that  should  remove 
it,  and  she  herself  "  wolde  never  passe 
the  Tre  neither  going  nor  coming,  but 
went  still  about." 

And  when  she  died  and  should  have 
been  carried  past  the  tree  to  the  park, 
her  dochter  did  cry  from  a  window  to 
the  bearers,  "  Goe  about !  goe  about  I  " 
and  they  went  about :  and  all  the 
company.  And  in  time  the  velvet 
pall  rotted,  and  was  torn  and  driven 
away  rapidia  ludibria  ventix:  and  wlien 
the  hand  of  Nature,  and  no  human 
hand,  liad  thus  flouted  and  dispersed 
the  trappings  of  the  mother's  grief, 
two  pieces  were  picked  up  and  pre- 
served among  the  fi\mily  relics  ;  and 
the  black  velvet  had  turned  a  rusty  red. 

So  the  baroness  did  nothing  new  iu 


WHITE   LIES. 


33 


this  family  \v!ien  she  liiin;^  her  chaplet 
on  the  kuijclits'  bough  ;  and,  in  fact,  on 
the  west  side,  about  eij^hteen  feet  from 
the  ground,  there  still  mouldered  one 
corner  of  an  atchicvement  an  heir  of 
Beaurepaire  had  nailed  there  two  cen- 
turies before,  when  his  predecessor 
died  :  "  for,"  said  he,  "  the  chateau  is 
of  yesterday,  but  the  tree  has  seen  us 
all  come  and  go."  The  inside  of  the 
tree  was  clean  gone  :  it  was  hollow  as 
a  drum,  —  not  eight  inches  thick  in 
any  part ;  and  on  its  cast  side  yawned 
a  fissure  as  high  as  a  man  and  as 
broad  a^  a  street  door.  Dard  used  to 
wheel  his  wheelbarrow  into  the  tree 
at  a  trot,  and  there  leave  it. 

In  spite  of  excavation  and  mutila- 
tion, not  life  only  but  vigor  dwelt 
in  this  wooden  shell,  —  the  extreme 
ends  of  the  longer  boughs  were  fire- 
wood, touchwood,  and  the  crown  was 
gone  time  out  of  mind :  but  narrow 
the  circle  a  very  little  to  where  the 
indomitable  trunk  could  still  shoot 
sap  from  its  cruise  deep  in  earth,  in 
there  on  every  side  burst  the  green 
leaves  in  summer  countless  as  the 
sand.  The  leaves  carved  centuries 
ago  from  these  very  models,  though 
cut  in  stone,  were  most  of  them  mould- 
ered, blunted,  notched,  deformed, — 
but  the  delicate  types  came  back  with 
every  summer  perfect  and  lovely  as 
when  the  tree  was  but  their  elder 
brother,  —  and  greener  than  ever :  for 
from  what  cause  Nature  only  knows, 
the  leaves  were  many  shades  deeper 
and  richer  than  any  other  tree  could 
show  for  a  hundred  miles  round,  —  a 
deep  green,  fiery,  yet  soft ;  and  then 
their  multitude,  —  the  staircases  of 
foliage  as  you  looked  up  the  tree,  and 
could  scarce  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
sky,  —  an  inverted  abyss  of  color,  a 
mound,  a  dome,  of  flake  emeralds  that 
quivered  in  the  golden  air. 

And  now  the  sun  sets  —  the  green 
leaves  are  black  —  the  moon  rises  — 
her  cold  light  shoots  across  one  half 
that  giant  stem. 

How  solemn  and  calm  stands  the 
great  round  tower  of  living  wood,  half 
2* 


ebon}-,  half  silver,  with  its  mighty 
cloud  above  of  flake  jet  leaves  tinged 
with  frostv  fire  at  one  edge  I 

Now  is  the  still  hour  to  repeat  in  a 
whisper  the  words  of  the  dame  of 
Beaurepaire  :  "  You  were  here  before 
us  :  you  will  be  here  when  we  are 
gone." 

Let  us  leave  the  hoary  king  of  trees 
standing  in  the  moonlight,  calmly  de- 
fying time,  and  let  us  follow  the  crea- 
tures of  a  day  ;  since  what  they  wera 
we  are. 

A  spacious  saloon  panelled :  dead 
but  snowy  white  picked  out  sparingly 
with  gold.  Festoons  of  fruit  and 
flowers  finely  carved  in  wood  on  somo 
of  the  panels.  These  also  not  smoth- 
ered with  gilding,  but,  as  it  were,  gold- 
speckled  here  and  there,  like  tongues 
of  flame  winding  among  insoluble 
snow. 

Ranged  against  the  walls  were  sofas 
and  chairs  covered  with  rich  stuffs 
well  worn.  And  in  one  little  distant 
corner  of  the  long  room  a  gray-haired 
gentleman  and  two  young  ladies  sit- 
ting on  cane  chairs  round  a  small  plain 
table,  on  which  burned  a  solitary 
candle ;  and  a  little  way  apart  in  this 
candle's  twilight  an  old  lady  sat  in  an 
easy-chair,  in  a  deep  revery,  thinking 
of  the  past,  scarce  daring  to  inquire 
the  future. 

Josephine  and  Laurc  were  work- 
ing, not  fancy  work  but  needle-work  ; 
Doctor  St.  Aubin,  writing. 

Every  now  and  then  he  pnt  the  one 
candle  nearer  the  girls.  They  raised 
no  objection,  only  a  few  minutes  aftei 
a  white  hand  would  glide  from  one  or 
other  of  them  like  a  serpent,  and 
smoothly  convey  the  light  nearer  to 
the  doctor's  manuscript. 

"  Is  it  not  supper-time  1  "  inquired 
the  doctor,  at  last. 

"  One  would  think  not.  Jacintha 
is  very  punctual." 

"  So  she  may  be,  but  I  have  an 
inward  monitor,  mesdemoiselles  ;  and, 
by  the  way,  our  dinner  was,  I  think, 
more  ethereal  than  usual." 

"  Hush  ! "     said     Josephine,     and 


34 


WHITE   LIES. 


looked  uneasily  towards  her  mother. 
She  added  in  a  whisper :  "  Wax  is 
so  dear." 

"  Wax  1  —  ah  !  —  pardon  me,"  and 
the  doctor  returned  hastily  to  his 
work. 

Tiien  Laure  looked  up  and  said  : 
"  I  wonder  Jacintha  does  not  come, 
—  it  is  certainly  past  the  hour  "  ;  and 
she  pried  into  the  room  as  if  she  ex- 
pected to  see  Jacintha  on  the  road. 
But  she  saw  in  fact  very  little  of  any- 
thing, for  the  spacious  room  was  im- 
penetrable to  her  eye.  Midway  from 
the  candle  to  the  distant  door  its  twi- 
light deepened,  and  all  became  shape- 
less and  sombre. 

The  prospect  ended  half-way  sharp 
and  black,  as  in  those  out-o'-door 
closets  imagined  and  painted  by  Mr, 
Turner,  whose  Nature  (Mr.  Turner's) 
comes  to  a  full  stop  as  soon  as  Mr. 
Turner  sees  no  further  occasion  for 
her,  instead  of  melting  by  fine  expanse 
and  exquisite  gradation  into  genuine 
distance  as  Nature  does  in  Claude  and 
and  in  Nature.  To  reverse  the  pic- 
ture, standing  at  the  door  you  looked 
across  forty  feet  of  black,  and  the  little 
corner  seemed  on  fire,  and  the  fair 
heads  about  the  candle  shone  like  tlie 
heads  of  St.  Cecilias  and  Madonnas 
in  an  antique  stained-glass  window. 

At  last  Laure  observed  the  door 
open,  and  another  candle  glowed  upon 
Jacintha's  comely  peasant  face  in  tlic 
doorway.  She  put  down  her  candle 
outside  the  door,  and  started  as  the 
crow  flies  for  the  other  light. 

After  glowing  a  moment  in  the 
doorway  she  dived  into  the  shadow 
and  emerged  into  light  again  close  to 
the  table,  with  napkins  on  her  arm. 
She  removed  the  work-box  reveren- 
tially, the  doctor's  manuscript  uncere- 
moniously, and  proceeded  to  lay  a 
cloth,  in  which  operation  she  looked  at 
Josephine  a  point-blank  glance  of 
admiration  ;  then  she  placed  the  nap- 
kins ;  and  in  this  process  she  again 
cast  a  strange  look  of  interest  upon 
Josephine. 

The  young  lady  noticed  it  this 
time,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  her  in 


look   she   gave 


return,  half  expecting  some  communi- 
cation ;  but  Jacintha  lowered  her  eyes 
and  bustled  about  the  tabic.  Then 
Josephine  spoke  to  her  with  a  sort  of 
instinct  of  curiosity,  —  that  this  look 
might  find  words. 

"  Supper  is  a  little  late  to-night ;  is 
it  not,  Jacintha  ■?  " 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle,  I  have  had 
more  to  do  than  usual  "  ;  and  with  this 
she  delivered  another  point-blank  look 
as  before,  and  dived  into  the  palpable 
obscure  and  came  to  light  in  the  door- 
way. 

Josephine.     "  Did  vou  see  that  1  " 

Laure. _    "What?'' 

Joaephine.     "  The 
me?" 

Laure.     "  No.     What  look  ?  " 

Josephine.  "  A  singular  look,  a 
look  of  curi — osity,  —  one  would 
almost  say  of  admi —  but  no  ;  that  is 
impossible  —  " 

St.  Aubin  (dryly).  "  Clearly."  He 
added  after  a  pause  :  "  yet  after  all  it 
is  the  prettiest  face  in  the  room  — " 

"  Doctor,"  cried  Laure,  with  fury. 

"  My  cliild,  I  did  not  see  you." 

"  And  how  dare  you  call  my  Jose- 
phine pretty  ?  the  Madonna  pretty  ? 
does  that  describe  her?  I  am  indig- 
nant." 

St.  Auhin.  "  Mademoiselle  Laure, 
permit  me  to  observe  that,  by  calling 
Mademoiselle  your  Josephine,  you 
claim  a  monopoly  that  —  ahem !  — 
cannot  possibly  be  conceded." 

Laure  (haughtily).  "Why,  whose 
Josephine  is  she  but  mine  ?  " 

St.  Auhin  (after  coolly  taking  a 
pinch  of  snuff,  and  seeming  to  re- 
flect).   "Mine." 

Here  a  voice  at  the  fireplace  put 
quietly  in  :  "  Twenty  years  ago 
Laure  was  not  born,  and  my  good 
friend  there  had  never  see  Beaure- 
paire.  Whose  Josephine  waS  she 
then,  good  people  ?  " 

"  Mamma  !  whose  is  she  now  ?  " 
and  Josephine  was  at  her  mother's 
knees  in  a  moment. 

"  Good  !  "  said  the  doctor  to  Laure. 
"  See  the  result  of  our  injudicious 
competition.  A  third  party  has  carried 


WHITE  LIES. 


35 


her  off.  Is  supper  never  coming? 
Are  you  not  hungry,  my  child  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  friend  —  no  !  not  very." 

Alas  !  if  the  truth  must  be  told, 
they  were  all  hungry.  So  rigorous 
was  the  economy  in  this  decayed  but 
honorable  house,  that  the  wax  candles 
burned  to-day  in  the  oratory  had 
scrimped  their  dinner,  xinsubstantial 
as  it  was  wont  to  be.  Think  of  that, 
you  in  fustian  jackets  who  grumble 
on  a  full  belly.  My  lads,  many  a 
back  you  envy,  with  its  silk  and 
broadcloth,  has  to  rob  the  stomach. 

"  Ah  !  here  she  is." 

The  door  opened ;  Jacintha  ap- 
peared in  the  light  of  her  candle  a 
moment  with  a  tray  in  both  hands ; 
and  approaching  was  lost  to  view. 

Before  she  emerged  to  sight  again 
a  strange  and  fragrant  smell  heralded 
her.  All  their  eyes  turned  with  curi- 
osity towards  the  unwonted  odor, 
till  Jacintha  dawned  with  three  roast 
partridges  on  a  dish. 

They  were  wonder-struck.  Ja- 
cintha's  face  was  red  as  fire,  partly 
with  cooking,  partly  with  secret  pride 
and  happiness  :  but  she  concealed  it, 
and  indeed  all  appearance  of  feeling, 
under  a  feigned  apathy.  She  avoided 
their  eyes,  and  resolutely  excluded 
from  her  face  everything  that  could 
imply  she  did  not  serve  up  partridges 
to  this  family  every  night  of  her  life. 

The  young  ladies  looked  from  the 
birds  to  her,  and  from  her  to  the 
birds,  in  mute  surprise,  that  was  not 
diminished  by  the  cynical  indifference 
printed  on  her  face. 

"  The  supper  is  served,  Madame 
the  Baroness,"  said  she,  with  a  re- 
spectful courtesy  and  a  mechanical 
tone,  and,  plunging  into  the  night, 
swam  out  at  licr  own  candle,  shut  the 
door,  and,  unlocking  her  face  that  mo- 
ment, burst  out  radiant,  and  went 
down  beaming  with  exultation  ;  and 
had  an  agreeable  cry  by  the  kitchen 
fire,  the  result  of  her  factitious  and 
somewhat  superfluous  stoicism  up 
stairs  ;  and,  the  tear  still  in  her  eye, 
set  to  and  polished  all  the  copper 
Btew-pans  with  a  vigor  and   expedi- 


tion   unknown    to    the    new-fangled 
domestic. 

"  Partridges,  mamma!"  cried 
Laure.     "  What  next  1 " 

"  Pheasants,  I  hope,"  cried  the 
doctor,  gayly.  "  And  after  them 
hares ;  to  conclude  with  royal  venison. 
Permit  me,  ladies."  And  he  set  him- 
self to  carve  with  zeal. 

Now  nature  is  nature,  and  two 
pair  of  violet  eyes  brightened  and 
dwelt  on  the  fragrant  and  delicate 
food  with   demure   desire. 

For  all  that,  when  St.  Aubin  offered 
Josephine  a  wing,  she  declined  it. 

"  ISTo  partridge  ?  "  cried  the  savant, 
in  utter  amazement. 

"Not  to-day,  dear  friend,  —  it  is 
not  a  feast  day  to-day." 

"  Ah !  no  ;  what  was  I  thinking 
of?  "  said  the  poor  doctor. 

"  But  you  are  not  to  be  deprived," 
put  in  Josephine,  anxiously.  "  We 
will  not  deny  ourselves  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you  eat  some." 

"  What  ?  "  remonstrated  St.  Aubin, 
"  am  I  not  one  of  you  ?  " 

The  baroness  had  attended  to  every 
word  of  this.  She  rose  from  her 
chair,  and  said  quietly :  "  Both  you 
and  he  and  Laure  will  be  so  good  as 
to  let  me  see  you  eat  them." 

"  But,  mamma,"  remonstrated  Jo- 
sephine and  Laure,  in  one  breath. 

"  Je  le  veux,"  *  was  the  cold  re- 
ply- 

These  were  words  the  baroness  ut- 
tered so  seldom  that  they  were  little 
likely  to  be  disputed. 

The  doctor  carved  and  helped  the 
young  ladies  and  himself. 

When  they  had  all  eaten  a  little,  a 
discussion  was  observed  to  be  going 
on  between  Laure  and  her  sister.  At 
last  St.  Aubin  caught  these  words  :  — 

"  It  will  be  in  vain,  even  you  have 
not  influence  enough  for  that,  Laure." 

"  We  shall  see,"  was  the  reply,  and 
Laure  put  the  wing  of  a  partridge  on 
a  plate,  and  rose  calmly  from  her 
chair.  She  took  the  plate  and  put  it 
on  the  little  work-table  by  her  moth- 
er's side. 

*  It  is  my  will. 


36 


WHITE  LIES. 


The  others  pretended  to  be  all 
mouths,  but  they  were  all  ears. 

The  baroness  looked  in  Laure's  face 
with  an  air  of  wonder  that  was  not 
very  encouraging.  Then,  as  Laure 
said  nothing,  she  raised  her  aristo- 
cratic hand  with  a  courteous  but  de- 
cided gesture  of  refusal. 

Undaunted  little  Laure  laid  her 
palm  softly  on  the  baroness's  shoul- 
der, and  said  to  her  as  firmly  as  the 
baroness  herself  had  just  spoken  :  — 

"  //  le  veut,  ma  mere !  "  * 

The  baroness  was  staggered.  Then 
she  looked  steadily  in  silence  at  the 
fair  young  face,  —  then  she  reflect- 
ed. At  last  she  said  with  an  ex- 
quisite mixture  of  politeness  and  af- 
fection :  — 

"  It  is  his  daughter  who  has  told 
me  '  //  le  veut  !  '  I  obey." 

Laure,  returning  like  a  victorious 
knight  from  the  lists,  saucily  exult- 
ant, and  with  only  one  wet  eyelash, 
was  solemnly  kissed  and  petted  by 
the  other  two. 

Thus  they  loved  one  another  in  this 
great  old  falling  house.  Their  famil- 
iarity had  no  coarse  side.  A  form, 
not  of  custom  but  affection,  it  walked 
hand  in  hand  with  courtesy  by  day 
and  night ;  aristo  vn  ! 

The  baroness  retired  early  to  rest 
this  evening. 

She  was  no  sooner  gone  than  an 
earnest  and  anxious  conversation 
took  place  between  the  sisters.  It 
was  commenced  in  a  low  tone,  not  to 
interrupt  St.  Aubin's  learned  lucu- 
brations. 

Josephine.  "  Has  she  heard  any- 
thing ?  " 

Laure.  "  About  our  harsh  cred- 
itor, —  about  the  threatened  sale  of 
Beaurepaire  ?  Not  that  I  know  of. 
Heaven  forbid !  " 

Josephine.  "  Laure,  she  said  some 
words  to  me  to-day  that  make  me 
very  uneasy,  but  I  did  not  make  her 
any  answer.  She  said  (we  were  by 
the  great  oak-tree),  '  You  were  here 
before   us, — you  will   be   here  after 


us. 


*  It  is  hia  will,  my  mother. 


"  0  heaven,  who  has  told  her  1 
Can  Jacintha  have  been  so  mad  ?  " 

"  That  faithful  creature.  O  no  ! 
When  she  told  me  her  great  anxiety 
was  lest  my  mother  should  know." 

"  May  Heaven  bless  her  for  having 
so  much  sense  as  well  as  fidelity. 
The  baroness  must  never  know  this 
till  the  danger  is  past,  —  poor  thing  ! 
the  daily  fear  would  shake  her  terri- 
bly." 

Josephine.  "  You  have  heard  what 
we  have  been  saying  ?  " 

St.  Aubin.  "  Every  word.  Let 
me  put  awaj'  this  rubbish,  in  which 
my  head  but  not  my  heart  is  inter- 
ested, and  let  us  unite  heart  and  hand 
against  this  new  calamity.  Who 
has  threatened  to  sell  Beaurepaire  ?  " 
Josephine.  "  A  single  creditor. 
But  Jacintha  could  not  tell  me  his 
name." 

St.  Aubin.  "  That  will  bo  easily 
discovered.  Now  as  for  those  words 
of  the  baroness,  do  not  be  disquieted. 
You  have  put  a  forced  interpretation 
on  them,  my  dear." 

Josf'phine.     "  Have  I,  doctor  ?  " 

St.  Aubin.  "  The  baroness  is  an 
old  lady,  conscious  of  her  failing  pow- 
ers." 

Josephine.  "  O  doctor.  I  hope 
not." 

St.  Aubin.  "  She  stood  opposite 
an  ancient  tree.  Something  of  this 
sort  passed  through  her  mind  :  '  You 
too  are  old,  older  than  I  am,  but  you 
will  survive  me.'  " 

I^anre.  "  But  she  said  '  us,'  not 
'me.'" 

St.  Aubin.  "  0,  '  us  '  or  '  me.' 
Ladies  are  not  very  exact." 

Josephine.  "  What  you  say  is  very 
intelligent,  my  friend  ;  but  somehow 
that  was  not  what  she  meant." 

"  It  is  the  simplest  interpretation 
of  her  words." 

"  I  confess  it." 

"  Can  you  give  me  any  tangible 
reason  for  avoiding  the  obvious  inter- 
pretation ?  " 

"  No.  Only  when  you  are  so  well 
acquainted  with  the  face  and  voice  of 
any  one  as  I  am  with  dear  mamma's, 


WHITE   LIES. 


37 


you  can  seize  shades  of  meaning  that 
are  not  to  be  conveyed  to  another  by 
a  bare  account  of  the  words  spoken." 

"  This  is  fanciful :  chimerical." 

"  I  feel  it  may  appear  so." 

Laure.  "Not  to  me,  I  beg  to  ob- 
serve :  it  is  quite  simple,  perfectly 
notorious,  and  as  clear  as  day." 

St.  Aiibin.  "  To  you,  possibly,  en- 
thusiastic maid;  but  I  have  an  un- 
fortunate habit  of  demanding  a  tangi- 
ble reason  for  my  assent  to  any  given 
proposition." 

Laure.  "  It  is  an  unfortunate  habit. 
Josephine  dear,  tell  me  now  what 
was  the  exact  feeling  that  our  mother 
gave  you  by  the  way  she  said  those 
words." 

"Yes,  dear.  Well,  then," — here 
Josephine  slightly  knitted  her  smooth 
brow,  and  said  slowly,  turning  her 
eyes  inwards,  —  "  our  mother  did  not 
intend  to  compare  the  duration  of  our 
mortal  lives  with  tliat  of  a  tree." 

"  Petitio  principii,"  said  the  doctor, 
quietly. 

"  Plait  I'l?  On  the  other  hand,  if 
she  had  heard  our  impending  misfor- 
tune, would  she  not  have  been  less 
general  ?  would  she  not  have  spoken 
to  me,  and  not  to  the  tree  1  I  think 
then  that  our  dear  mother  had  a  gen- 
eral misgiving,  a  presentiment  that 
we  shall  be  driven  from  this  beloved 
spot ;  and  this  presentiment  found 
words  at  the  sight  of  that  old  compan- 
ion of  our  fortunes  ;  but,  even  if  this 
be  the  right  interpretation,  I  cannot 
see  her  come  so  near  the  actual  truth 
without  trembling ;  for  I  know  her 
penetration  ;  and  O,  if  it  were  even  to 
reach  her  ears  that  —  alas  !  my  dear 
mother." 

"  It  never  shall,  my  little  angel,  it 
never  sliall ;  to  leave  Beaurepaire 
would  kill  the  baroness." 

"  No,  doctor,  do  not  say  so." 

Laure.  "  Let  us  fight  against  our 
troubles,  but  not  exaggerate  them. 
Mamma  would  still  have  her  daugh- 
ters' love." 

"  It  is  idle  to  deceive  ourselves," 
replied  St.  Aubin.  "  The  baroness 
would  not  live  a  month  away  from 


Beaurepaire.  At  her  age  men  and 
women  hang  to  life  by  their  habits. 
Take  her  away  from  her  chateau, 
from  the  little  oratory  where  she  prays 
every  day  for  the  departed,  from  her 
place  in  the  sun  on  the  south  terrace, 
and  from  all  the  memories  that  sur- 
round her  here,  she  would  bow  her 
head  and  die." 

Hero  the  savant,  seeing  a  hobby- 
horse near,  caught  him  and  jumped 
on. 

He  launched  into  a  treatise  upon 
tlie  vitality  of  human  beings,  wonder- 
fully learned,  sagacious,  and  mis- 
placed. He  proved  at  length  that  it 
is  the  mind  which  keeps  the  body  of 
man  alive  for  so  great  a  length  of 
time  as  fourscore  years.  He  informed 
them  that  he  had  in  the  earlier  part  of 
his  studies  carefully  dissected  a  multi- 
tude of  animals,  —  frogs,  rabbits,  dogs, 
men,  horses,  siieep,  squirrels,  foxes, 
cats,  &c.,  —  and  discovered  no  pecu- 
liarity in  man's  organs  to  account  for 
his  singular  longevity,  except  in  the 
brain  or  organ  of  mind.  Tiience  he 
went  to  the  longevity  of  men  with 
contented  minds,  and  the  rapid  decay 
of  the  careworn.  He  even  explained 
to  these  girls  why  no  bachelor  had 
ever  attained  the  full  age  of  man, 
which  he  was  obliging  enough  to  put 
at  one  hundred  and  ten  years.  A 
wife,  he  explained,  is  essential  to  vast 
longevity ;  she  is  the  receptacle  of 
half  a  man's  cares,  and  of  two  thirds 
of  his  ill-humor. 

After  many  such  singular  windings 
very  proper  to  a  lecture-room,  he  came 
back  to  the  baroness  ;  on  which  his 
heart  regained  the  lost  ascendency 
over  his  head,  and  he  ended  a  tolera- 
bly frigid  discourse  in  a  deep  sigh. 

"  0  doctor,"  cried  Laure,  "  what 
shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  I  have  already  made  up  my  mind. 
I  shall  have  an  interview  with  Perrin, 
the  notary." 

"  But  we  have  offended  him." 

"  Not  mortally.  Besides,  the  baron- 
ess was  in  the  wrong." 

"  Mamma  in  the  wrong  ?  " 

"Excusably,    but    unquestionably. 


88 


WHITE  LIES. 


She  was  impetuous  out  of  place. 
Maitre  Perrin  gave  her  the  advice,  not 
of  a  delicate  mind,  but  of  a  friend 
who  had  her  interest  at  heart.  He  is 
under  great  obligations  to  this  family. 
He  caa  now  repay  them  without  in- 
jury to  himself;  this  is  a  flight  of 
gratitude  of  which  I  believe  even  a 
notary  capable.  Are  you  not  of  my 
opinion,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

Josephine's  reply  was  rather  femi- 
nine than  point-blank. 

"  I  have  already  been  so  unfortu 
nate  as  to  differ  once  with  ray  best 
friend  "  ;  and  she  lowered  her  lashes 
and  awaited  her  doom. 

"  This  dear  poltroon,"  cried  Laure, 
—  "  speak  !  " 

"  Well,  then,  my  friend,  Monsieur 
Perrin  does  not  inspire  me  with  con- 
fidence." 

"  Humph  !  have  you  heard  anything 
against  him  ■?  " 

"  No ;  it  is  only  what  I  have  ob- 
served ;  let  us  hope  I  am  wrong. 
Well,  then,  Laure,  the  man's  face 
carries  one  expression  when  he  is  on 
his  guard  and  another  when  he  is  not. 
His  voice  too  is  not  frank.  It  is  not 
a  genuine  part  of  himself  as  yours  is, 
dear  doctor,  —  and  then  it  is  not  —  it 
is  not  one." 

"  Diable  !  has  he  two  voices  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  and  perhaps  more.  When 
he  is  in  this  room  his  voice  is  —  is  — 
what  shall  I  say  i  Artificial  hon- 
ey (" 

"  Say  treacle,"  put  in  Laure. 

"  You  have  said  it,  Laure  ;  that  is 
the  very  word  I  was  searching  for  ; 
but  out  of  doors  I  have  heard  him 
speak  very  dilferently,  in  a  voice  im- 
perious, irascible,  I  had  almost  said 
brutal.  Ay,  and  the  worst  is  that  bad 
voice  was  his  own  voice." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  know  it,  dear 
friend.     Something  tells  me." 

"  However,  you  can  give  a  tangible 
reason,  of  course,"  said  the  doctor, 
treacherously. 

"  No,  my  friend  ;  I  am  not  strong 
at  reasons.  Consider,  I  have  not  the 
advantage  of  being  a  savant.     I  am 


but  a  woman.     My  opinion  of  this 
man  is  an  instinct,  not  a  reason." 
The  doctor's  face  was  provoking. 
Josephine  saw  it,  but  she  was  one 
not  easily  provoked.     She  only  smiled 
a  little  sadly.     Laure  fired  up  for  her. 
"  I  would  rather  trust  an  instinct  of 
Josephine's  than  all  the  reasons  of  all 
the  savans  in  France  !  " 

"  Laure  !  "  remonstrated  Josephine, 
opening  her  eyes. 

"  Reasons  ?  —  straws  !  "  cried  Lau- 
re, disdainfully. 

"  Hallo  !  "  cried  St.  Aubin,  with  a 
comical  look. 

"  And  there  are  always  as  many  or 
these  straws  against  the  truth  as  for 
it.  The  Jansenists  have  books  brim- 
ful of  reasons.  The  Jesuits  have 
books  full  against  them.  The  Cal- 
vinists  and  all  the  heretics  have  vol- 
umes of  reasons  —  so  thick.  Is  it 
reason  that  teaches  me  to  pray  to  the 
Madonna  and  the  saints!  and  so  — 
Josephine  is  right  and  you  are  wrong." 
"  Well  jumped.  Alas  !  lam  intim- 
idated, but  not  convinced." 

"  Your  mistake  is  replying  to  her, 
doctor,"  said  Josephine  ;  "  that  en- 
courages her,  —  a  little  virago  that 
rules  us  all  with  iron.  Come  here, 
child,  and  be  well  kissed  for  your  ef- 
frontery ;  and  now  hold  your  tongue. 
Tell  us  your  plan,  doctor,  and  you 
may  count  on  Laure's  co-operation  as 
well  as  mine.  It  is  I  who  tell  you  so." 
"  She  is  right  again,  doctor,"  said 
Laure,  peeping  at  him  over  her  sis- 
ter's shoulder. 

St.  Aubin,  thus  encouraged,  ex- 
plained to  them  that  he  would,  with- 
out compromising  the  baroness,  write 
to  Monsieur  Perrin,  and  invite  him  to 
an  interview.  The  result  is  certain. 
This  harsh  creditor  will  be  paid  off 
by  a  transfer  of  the  loan,  and  all  will 
be  well.  Meantime  there  is  nothing 
to  despond  about ;  it  is  not  as  if  sev- 
eral creditors  were  agreed  to  force  a 
sale.  This  is  but  one,  and  the  most 
insignificant  of  them  all." 

"  Is  it  ?     I  hope  it  may  be.     What 
makes  you  think  so  1 " 
"  I  know  it,  Josephine." 


WHITE  LIES. 


39 


The  girls  looked  at  one  another. 
"  O,  you  have  no  rival  to  fear  in  me. 
My  instincts  are  so  feeble  that  I  am 
driven  for  aid  to  that  contemptible  ally, 
Reason.  Thus  it  is.  Our  large  cred- 
itors are  men  of  property,  and  such 
men  let  their  funds  lie  unless  com- 
pelled to  move  them.  But  the  small 
mortgagee,  the  needy  man,  who  has, 
perhaps,  no  investment  to  watch  but 
one  small  loan,  about  which  he  is  as 
anxious  and  as  noisy  as  a  hen  with 
one  chicken,  —  he  is  the  clamorous 
creditor,  the  harsh  little  egoist,  who 
at  the  first  possibility  of  losing  a  crown 
piece  would  bring  the  Garden  of  Eden 
to  the  hammer.  Go  then  to  rest,  my 
children,  and  sleep  calmly.  Heaven 
watches  over  you,  and  this  gray  head 
leaves  its  chimeras  when  your  hap- 
piness is  in  peril." 

"  And  there  is  no  better  head,"  said 
Laure,  affectionately,  —  but  she  must 
add  saucily,  —  "  when  it  does  come 
out  of  the  clouds  "  ;  and  with  this  sauce 
in  her  very  mouth  she  inclined  her 
white  forehead  to  Monsieur  St.  Aubin 
for  his  parting  salute.* 

He  wrote  an  answer  immediately. 

*  The  sparring  between  St.  Aubin  and 
Laure  de  Beaurepaire  was  not  exactly  what 
it  looks  on  paper  at  first  glance.  But  we  soon 
come  to  the  limit  of  the  fine  arts.  The  art  of 
writing,  to  wit,  tells  you  what  people  said,  but 
not  how  ;  yet  "  how  "  makes  often  all  the  dif- 
ference. When  these  two  fenced  in  talk,  the 
tones  and  the  manner  were  full  of  affection 
and  playfulness,  and  robbed  of  their  barb 
words,  which,  coarsely  or  unkindly  uttered, 
might  have  stung.  Look  at  those  two  distant 
cats  fighting.  They  roll  over  one  another  in 
turn  ;  they  bite  with  visible  fury,  they  scratch 
alternate.  Tigers  or  theologians  could  do  no 
more.  In  about  two  minutes  a  black  head,  a 
leaf  torn  out  of  Dr.  Watts,  and  a  tabby  tail,  will 
strew  the  field,  sole  relics  of  this  desperate  en- 
counter. Now  go  nearer  ;  you  shall  find  that  in 
these  fierce  bites  the  teeth  are  somehow  kept 
back  entirely,  and  the  scratching  is  tickling 
done  with  a  velvet  paw,  not  the  poisoned  iron 
claw.  The  fighting  resolves  itself  into  two 
elements,  play  and  affection.  These  comba- 
tants are  never  strange  cats,  or  cats  that  bear 
each  other  a  grudge.  And  this  mock  fighting 
is  a  favorite  gambol  with  many  animals  ;  with 
none  more  so  than  with  men  and  women,  es- 
pecially intelligent  and  finely  tempered  ones. 
Be  careful  not  to  do  it  with  a  foul.  I  don't 
tell  you  why,  because  the  fool  will  show 
you. 


The  young  ladies  retired  to  rest, 
grcatlj'  reassured  and  comforted  by 
their  friend's  confidence,  and  he  with 
a  sudden  change  of  manner  paced  the 
apartment  nervously  till  one  in  the 
morning.  His  brow  was  knitted,  and 
his  face  sad,  and  if  his  confidence  had 
been  real,  why,  then  much  of  it  oozed 
away  as  soon  as  he  had  no  one  to  com- 
fort or  confute. 

At  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  sat 
down  and  wrote  to  the  notary. 

His  letter,  the  result  of  much  reflec- 
tion, was  tolerably  adroit. 

He  deplored  the  baroness's  suscepti- 
bility, hinted  delicately  that  she  had  in 
all  probability  already  regretted  it,  and 
more  broadly  that  he  had  thought  her 
in  the  wrong  from  the  first.  If  Mon- 
sieur Perrin  shared  in  any  degree  his 
regret  at  the  estrangement,  there  was 
now  an  opportunity  for  him  to  return 
with  credit  to  his  place  as  friend  of 
the  family.  And,  to  conclude,  thQ 
writer  sought  a  personal  interview. 

Let  us  follow  this  letter.  It  was  laitx 
on  the  notary's  table  the  next  afternoon. 
As  he  read  it,  a  single  word  escaped, 
his  lips,  "  Curious  !  " 

He  wrote  an  answer  immediately. 
St.   Aubin   was   charmed  with  his 
reply,  and  its  promptness.     He  drew 
the   girls   aside,   and   read  them  the 
note.     They  listened  acutely. 

"  Monsieur  Perrin  had  never  taken 
serious  offence  at  the  baroness's  impelu- 
ositi),  for  which  so  many  excuses  were  to 
be  made.  It  was  in  pressing,  indiscreetly, 
perhaps,  her  interest,  that  he  had  been  so 
unfortunate  as  to  give  her  pain.  He 
now  hoped  Monsieur  St.  Aubin  ivould 
show  him  some  way  of  furthering  those 
interests  icithout  annoying  her.  He 
would  call  either  on  the  doctor  or  on  the 
baroness  at  any  hour  that  should  be 
named." 

"  There,"  cried  St.  Aubin,  "  is  not 
that  the  letter  of  a  friend,  and  an  hon- 
est man,  or,  at  all  events,  an  honest 
notary  ?  " 

"  O  yes  !  but  is  it  not  too  pure  ?  " 
suggested  Josephine.  "  Such  an  entire 
abnegation  of  self,  — is  that  natural,  — 
in  a  notary,  too,  as  you  observe "?  " 


40 


WHITE  LIES. 


"  Childishness  !  this  is  a  polite  note, 
as  well  as  a  friendly  one,  —  politeness 
always  speaks  a  language  the  opposite 
of  egoism,  and  consequently  of  sin- 
cerity, —  it  is  permitted  even  to  a 
notary  to  be  polite." 

"  That  is  true :  may  I  examine 
it  ?  " 

Josephine  scanned  it  as  if  she  would 
extract  the  hidden  soul  of  each  par- 
ticular syllahle.  She  returned  it  with 
a  half-sigh.  "  I  wish  it  had  a  voice  and 
eyes,  then  I  could  perhaps  —  But 
let  us  hope  for  the  best." 

"  I  mean  to,"  cried  the  doctor, 
cheerfully.  "  The  man  will  bo  here 
himself  in  forty-eight  hours.  I  shall 
tell  him  to  be  sure  and  bring  his  voice 
and  his  eyes  with  him  ;  to  these  he  will 
add  of  his  own  accord  that  little  pony 
round  as  a  tub  he  goes  about  on,  —  an- 
other inseparable  feature  of  the  man." 

So  the  manly  doctor  kept  up  their 
young  spirits  and  beguiled  their  anx- 
ious hearts  of  a  smile. 

"  Curious  !  "  said  the  notary. 

An  enigmatical  remark ;  but  I 
almost  think  I  catch  the  meaning  of 
it :  it  must  surely  have  had  some 
reference  to  the  following  little  scene 
that  passed  just  five  days  before  the 
notary  received  the  doctor's  letter. 

Outside  a  small  farm-house,  two 
miles  from  Beaurepaire,  stood  a  squab 
pony,  dun-colored,  with  a  white  mane 
and  tail.  lie  was  hooked  by  the 
bridle  to  a  spiral  piece  of  iron  driven 
into  the  house  to  hang  visitors'  nags 
from  by  the  bridle. 

The  farmer  was  a  man  generally 
disliked  and  feared,  for  he  was  one  of 
those  who  can  fawn  or  bully  as  suits 
their  turn  ;  just  now,  however,  he  was 
in  competent  hands.  The  owner  of 
the  squab  dun  was  talking  to  him  in 
his  own  kitchen  as  superiors  are  apt 
to  speak  to  inferiors,  and  as  superior 
very  seldom  speaks  to  anybody. 

The  farmer,  for  his  part,  was  wait- 
ing his  time  to  fire  a  volley  of  oaths 
at  his  visitor,  and  kick  him  out  of  tlie 
house.  Meantime,  cunning  first,  he 
was  watching  to  (ind  out  what  could 
be  the  notary's  game. 


"  So  yon  talk  of  selling  up  my 
friend  the  baroness  ? "  said  Perrin, 
haughtily. 

"  Well,  notary,"  replied  the  other, 
coolly,  "  my  half-year's  interest  has  not 
been  paid;  it  is  clue  this  two  months." 

"  Have  you  taken  any  steps  ?  " 

"  Not  yet ;  but  I  am  going  to  the 
mayor  this  afternoon,  if  you  have 
no  objection "  (this  with  a  marked 
sneer). 

"  You  had  better  break  your  leg, 
and  stay  at  home." 

"  Why  so  ?  if  you  please." 

"  Because,  if  you  do,  you  are  a 
ruined  man." 

"  I  '11  risk  that.  Haw  !  haw  ! 
Your  friends  will  have  to  grin  and  bear 
it,  as  we  used  them  under  the  kings. 
They  have  no  one  to  take  their  part 
against  me  that  I  know  of,  without  it 
is  you ;  and  you  are  not  the  man 
to  pay  other  folks'  debts,  I  should 
say." 

"  They  have  a  friend  who  will 
destroy  you  if  you  arc  so  base  as  to 
sell  Beaurepaire  for  your  miserable 
six  thousand  francs." 

"  Who  is  the  man  ?  if  it  is  not  ask- 
ing too  much." 

"  You  will  know  all  in  good  time. 
Let  us  speak  of  something  else.  You 
owe  twelve  thousand  francs  to  Fran- 
cois, )^our  cousin." 

Bonard  changed  color. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  He 
promised  faithful  not  to  tell  a  soul." 

"  When  he  promised,  he  did  not 
know  you  intended  to  get  drunk  and 
call  his  wife  an  unpolite  name." 

"  I  never  got  drunk,  and  1  never 
called  the  jade  an  ugly  name." 

"  You  lie,  my  man." 

"  Well,  monsieur,  suppose  I  did  ; 
hard  words  break  no  bones  ;  he  need 
not  talk,  —  /ie  thrashes  her,  the  pig." 

"  She  says  not.  But  that  is  not  the 
point ;  there  are  women  who  like  to 
be  thrashed  ;  but  there  is  not  one  who 
likes  to  be  called  titles  reflecting  on 
her  discretion.  So  Madame  Brocard 
has  given  you  a  lesson  not  to  injure 
the  weak,  —  especially  the  weak  that 
are  strong,  —  women,  to  wit.      Tliis 


WHITE   LIES. 


41 


one  was  strong  enough  to  make 
Francois  sell  your  debt  to  an  honest 
man,  who  is  ready  to  receive  payment 
at  this  hour." 

"  Is  it  a  jest  ?  How  can  I  pay 
twelve  thonsand  francs  all  in  a  mo- 
ment "?  Let  him  give  me  proper  time, 
and  it  is  not  twelve  thousand  francs 
that  will  trouble  Jacques  Bonard,  you 
know  that,  monsieur." 

"I  know  that  to  pay  it  you  must 
sell  your  ricks,  your  horses,  your 
chairs  and  tables,  and  the  bed  you 
sleep  on." 

"  Yes,^  can  !  yes,  I  can  !  especially 
if  I  have  your  good  word,  monsieur; 
and  I  know  you  will  —  Ten  to  one 
if  my  new  creditor  (curse  him !)  is  not 
known  to  you." 

"  He  is." 

"  There  then  it  is  all  right.  Every 
man  in  the  department  respects  you. 
I  '11  be  bound  you  can  turn  him  round 
your  finger,  whoever  he  is." 

"  I  can." 

"  There  is  a  weight  off  my  stom- 
ach. Well,  monsieur,  now  first  of 
all  who  is  the  man,  —  if  it  is  not  ask- 
ing too  much  1 " 

"It  is  I." 

"  You  ?  " 

"  I !  " 

"  Ugh  ! " 

"  Well,  sir,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  " 

"  Can  you  pay  me  ?  " 

"  That  I  can ;  but  you  must  give 
me  time." 

"If  you  will  give  me  securitv,  not 
else." 

"  And  I  will.  What  security  will 
you  have  ? " 

The  notary  answered  this  question 
by  action.  He  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket  and  drew  out  a  parchment. 

The  farmer's  eye  dilated. 

"  This  is  a  bond  by  which  yon  give 
me  a  hold  upon  your  Beanrepaire 
loan." 

"  Not  an  assignment  ■?  "  gasped  Bo- 
nard. 

"  Not  an  assignment.  On  the  con- 
trary, a  bond  tlmt  prevents  your  either 
assigning  or  selling  your  loan,  or 
forcing  Beaurepaire  to  a  sale,  —  pen- 


alty, twenty  thousand  francs  in  cither 
case." 

The  farmer  groaned. 

"  Call  a  witness,  and  sign." 

Bonard  went  to  the  window,  opened 
it,  and  called  to  a  man  in  the  farm- 
yard :  "  Here,  Georges,  step  this 
way." 

As  he  turned  round  from  the  win- 
dow the  first  thing  he  sav/  was  the 
notary  pulling  another  document  out 
of  his  other  pocket.  Paper  this  time 
instead  of  parchment. 

The  farmer's  eye  dilated. 

"  Not  another  ! !  saints  of  Paradise, 
not  another  !  !  !  "  he  yelled. 

"  This  is  to  settle  the  interest,  — 
nothing  more." 

"What  interest?  Ours?  Why, 
the  interest  is  settled,  — it  is  three  per 
cent." 

"  Was  !  but  I  am  not  so  soft  as  to 
lend  my  money  at  three  per  cent.  — 
Are  you  ?  You  bleed  the  baroness 
six  per  cent." 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  it  ?  I 
take  what  I  can  get.  But  I  can't  pay 
six  per  cent." 

"  You  are  not  required.  I  am  not 
an  usurer.  I  lend  at  five  per  cent 
what  little  I  lend  at  all,  and  I  '11 
trouble  you  for  your  signature." 

"  No  !  no  !  "  cried  the  farmer, 
standing  at  bay,  "  you  can't  do  that. 
Three  per  qent  is  the  terms  of  the 
loan.  Hang  it,  man,  stand  to  your 
own  bargain  !  " 

The  notary  started  up  like  Jack  in 
the  box,  with  startling  suddenness  and 
energy. 

"  Pay  me  my  twelve  thousand 
francs  !  "  cried  he,  fiercely,  or  I  empty 
your  barns  and  gut  your  house  before 
you  can  turn  round.  You  can't  sell 
Beaurepaire  in  less  than  a  month,  but 
I  '11  sell  you  up  in  forty-eight  hours." 

"  Sit  ye  down,  sir !  for  Heaven's 
sake  sit  ye  down,  my  good  monsieur, 
and  don't  talk  like  that,  —  don't  quar- 
rel with  an  honest  man  for  a  thought- 
less word.  Ah  !  here  is  Georges. 
Step  in,  Georges,  and  see  me  sign  my 
soul  and  entrails  away  at  a  sitting  — 
ugh ! " 


42 


WHIT]--  LIES. 


Five  minutes  more,  the  harsh  cred- 
itor, the  parish  bully,  was  obsequiously 
holding  the  notary's  off  stirrup.  He 
mounted  the  squab  dun  and  cantered 
off  with  the  parchment  sword  and  the 
paper  javelin  in  the  same  pocket  now, 
—  and  tacked  together  by  a  pin. 


CHAPTER   V. 

Eight  days  after  the  above  scene, 
three  days  after  the  notary  received 
St.  Aubin's  letter  and  said,  "  Cu- 
rious," came  an  autumn  day,  re- 
freshing to  late  turnips,  but  chilling 
and  depressing  to  human  hearts,  and 
death  to  those  of  artists.  A  steady, 
even,  down  pour  of  rain,  with  gusts  of 
wind  that  sent  showers  of  leaves  whirl- 
ing from  the  orange-colored  trees. 

Black  doubled-banked  clouds  prom- 
ised twenty-four  hours'  moist  misery ; 
and  as  for  the  sun,  hang  me  if  you 
could  guess  on  which  side  of  the 
house  he  was,  except  by  looking  first 
at  a  clock,  then  at  an  almanac. 

Even  the  sorrows  and  cares  of  the 
decaying  house  of  Beaurepaire  grew 
darker  and  heavier  this  day.  Even 
Laure,  the  gayest,  brightest,  and 
most  hopeful  of  the  party,  sat  at  the 
window,  her  face  against  the  pane, 
and  felt  lead  at  her  young  heart. 

While  she  sat  thus,  sad  and  hope- 
less, instinctively  reading  the  future 
lot  of  those  she  loved  in  those  double- 
banked  clouds,  her  eye  was  suddenly 
attracted  bj'  a  singular  phenomenon. 
A  man  of  gigantic  height  and  size 
glided  along  the  public  road,  one  half 
his  huge  form  visible  above  the  high 
palings. 

He  turned  in  at  the  great  gate  of 
Beaurepaire,  and  lo  the  giant  was  but 
a  rider  with  a  veiled  steed.  Clear  of 
the  palings,  he  proved  to  be  an  enor- 
mous horseman's  cloak,  —  a  pyramid 
of  brown  cloth  with  a  baton  its  apex, 
and  a  pony's  nose  protruding  at  one 
base,  tail  at  the  other.  Rider's  face 
did  not  show,  being  at  the  top  of  the 
cone  but  inside  it. 


At  the  sight  of  this  pageant  Laure 
could  hardly  suppress  a  scream  of  joy. 

Knight  returning  from  Crusades 
was  never  more  welcome  than  this 
triangle  of  broadcloth  was  to  her. 

She  beckoned  secretly  to  St.  Aubin. 
He  came,  and  at  the  sight  went  has- 
tily down  and  ordered  a  huge  wood 
lire  in  the  dining-room,  now  little 
used.  He  then  met  the  notary  at  the 
hall  door,  and  courteously  invited  him 
in. 

"  But  stay !  —  your  pony,  — what 
shall  wc  do  with  him  ?  " 

"  Give  yourself  no  trouble  on  his 
account,  monsieur ;  he  will  not  stir 
from  the  door  ;  he  is  Fidelity  in  per- 
son." 

St.  Aubin  apologized  for  not  tak- 
ing his  visitor  up  to  the  baroness ; 
"  But  the  business  is  one  that  must  be 
kept  from  her  knowledge."  At  this 
moment  the  door  opened,  and  Jose- 
phine glided  in.  St.  Aubin  liad  not 
expected  her,  but  he  used  her  skilful- 
ly ;  "  But  here,"  said  he,  "  is  Made- 
moiselle de  Beaurepaire  come  to  bid 
you  welcome  to  a  house  from  which 
you  have  been  too  long  absent.  Made- 
moiselle, now  that  you  have  wel- 
comed our  truant  friend,  be  so  good 
as  to  describe  to  him  the  report  which 
I  only  know  from  you." 

Josephine  briefly  told  what  she 
had  heard  from  Jacintha,  that  there 
was  one  cruel  creditor  who  threat- 
ened to  sell  the  chateau  and  lands 
of  Beaurepaire. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  the  notary, 
gravely,  "  that  report  is  true.  He 
openly  bragged  of  his  intention  more 
than  a  week  ago," 

"  Ah !  we  live  so  secluded,  —  you 
hear  everything  before  us.  Well, 
Monsieur  Perrin,  time  was  you  took 
an  interest  in  the  fortunes  of  this 
family  —  " 

"  Never  more  than  at  the  present 
moment,  monsieur  "  ;  in  saying  this 
he  looked  at  Josephine. 

"  The  more  to  your  credit,  mon- 
sieur." 

"  Do  you  happen  to  know  what  is 
the  sum  due  to  this  creditor  1 " 


WHITE  LIES. 


43 


"I  do.     Six  thousand  francs." 
St.  Aubin  looked  at  Josephme  tri- 
umphantly. 

"  One  of  the  very  smallest  credit- 
ors then." 

"  The  smallest  of  them  all,"  replied 
the  notary. 

Another  triumphant  glance  from 
St.  Aubin. 

"For  all  that,"  said  Monsieur 
Perrin,  thoughtfully,  "  I  wish  it  had 
been  a  larger  creditor,  and  a  less  un- 
manageable man.  The  other  credit- 
ors could  be  influenced  by  reason,  by 
clemency,  jby  good  feeling,  but  this  is 
a  man  of  iron  ;  humjjh,  —  may  I  ad- 
vise ?  " 

"  It  will  be  received  as  a  favor." 
"  Then,  —  pay  this  man  off  at  once, 
—  have   notliing   more    to    do   with 
him." 

His  hearers  opened  their  eyes. 
"  Where  are  we  to  find  six  thou- 
sand francs  1  " 

The  notary  reflected.  "  I  have  not 
at  this  moment  six  thousand  francs, 
but  I  could  contribute  two  thousand 
of  the  six." 

"  We  thank  you  sincerely,  but  —  " 
"  There   then ;    I    must    contrive 
three  thousand." 

St.  Aubin  shook  his  head :  "  Wc 
cannot  find  three  thousand  francs." 

"  Then  we  must  try  and  prevail  on 
Bonard  to  move  no  further  for  a  time  ; 
and  in  the  interval  we  must  find  an- 
other lender,  and  transfer  the  loan." 

"  Ah !  my  good  Monsieur  Perrin, 
can  you  do  this  for  us  1  " 

"  I  can  try ;  and  you  know  zeal 
goes  a  good  way  in  business.  I  will 
be  frank  with  you ;  the  character  of 
\liis  creditor  gives  me  some  uneasi- 
ness ;  but  courage  !  all  these  fellows 
have  secret  histories,  secret  wishes, 
secret  interests,  that  we  notaries  can 
penetrate,  —  when  we  have  a  suflicient 
motive  to  penetrate  such  rubbish,  — 
but  as  it  is  not  a  matter  to  be  tri- 
fled with,  forgive  me  if  I  bid  you 
and  mademoiselle  an  unceremonious 
adieu." 

He  rose  with  zeal  depicted  on  his 
face. 


"  Such  a  day  for  you  to  be  out  on 
our  service,"  cried  Josephine,  putting 
up  both  her  hands  the  palms  out- 
ward, as  if  disclaiming  the  weatiier. 

"  If  it  rained,  hailed,  and  snowed, 
I  should  not  feel  them  in  your  cause, 
mademoiselle,"  cried  the  chivalrous 
notary ;  and  he  took  by  suq:)rise  one 
of  Josephine's  white  hands,  and 
kissed  it  with  the  deepest  respect; 
then  made  off  all  in  a  bustle. 

St.  Aubin  followed  him  to  the  door, 
and  lo  !  "  Fidelity  in  person  "  was 
gone. 

St.  Aubin  was  concerned. 

The  notary  was  a  little  surprised, 
but  he  gave  a  shrill  whistle,  and 
awaited  the  result ;  another,  and  this 
time  a  long  tail  came  slowly  out  of 
the  Beaurepaire  oak  ;  the  pony's 
quarters  followed  ;  but,  when  his 
withers  were  just  clear,  the  cold  rain 
and  wind  struck  on  his  loins,  and  the 
quadruped's  bones  went  slowly  in 
again.  The  tail  had  the  grace  to 
stay  out ;  but  hair  is  a  vegetable,  and 
vegetables  like  rain.  The  notary 
strode  to  the  tree,  and  went  in  and 
backed  "  demifidelity  in  person  "  out. 
The  pyramid  of  cloth  remounted 
him,  and  away  they  toddled  ;  Laure, 
in  spite  of  her  anxiety,  giggling 
against  the  window ;  for  why,  the 
foreshortened  animal's  fore-legs  be- 
ing hidden  by  the  ample  folds,  the 
little  cream-colored  hind  legs  seemed 
the  notary's  own. 

Meantime  St.  Aubin  was  in  ear- 
nest talk  with  Josephine  in  the  hall. 

"  Well,  that  looks  like  sinceri- 
ty ! " 

"  Yes  !  you  did  not  see  the  signal  I 
made  you." 

"  No  !  what  signal  ?  why  ?  " 

"  His  eye  was  upon  you  like  a 
hawk's  when  he  proposed  to  you  to 
pay  three  thousand  francs  out  of  the 
six  thousand.  Ah,  doctor,  he  was  fath- 
oming our  resources.  I  wanted  you 
not  to  lay  bare  the  extent  of  our  pov- 
erty and  helplessness.  O  that  eye ! 
He  only  said  it  to  draw  you  out." 

"  If  you  thought  so,  wiiy  did  you 
not  stop  me  ■?  " 


44 


WHITE  LIES. 


"  I  did  all  I  could  to.  I  made  you 
a  sign  twice." 

"  Not  that  I  observed." 

"  Ah !  if  it  had  been  Laurc,  she 
would  have  understood  it  directly." 

"  But,  Josephine,  be  candid  :  what 
sinister  motive  can  this  poor  man 
have  ?  " 

"Indeed  I  don't  know.  Forgive 
me  my  uncharitable  instinct,  and  let 
us  admire  your  reasonable  sagacity. 
It  u-as  our  smallest  creditor !  Laure 
shall  ask  your  pardon  on  her  knees  ; 
dear  friend,  she  will  not  leave  our 
mother  alone :  be  so  kind  as  to  go 
into  the  saloon  ;  then  Laure  will  come 
out  to  me." 

The  doctor  did  as  he  was  bid  ;  and 
sure  enougli,  lier  mother  having  now 
a  companion,  Laurc  whipped  out 
and  ran  post-haste  to  her  sister  for 
the  news. 

Thus  a  secret  entered  the  house  of 
Beaurepaire ;  a  secret  from  which  one 
person,  the  mistress  of  the  house, 
was  excluded. 

This  was  no  vulgar  secrecy,  —  no 
disloyal,  nor  selfish,  nor  even  doubt- 
ful motive  mingled  with  it. 

Circumstances  appeared  to  dictate 
this  course  to  tender  and  vigilant  af- 
fection. 

They  saw  and  obeyed.  They  put 
up  the  shutters,  not  to  keep  out  the 
light  from  some  action  that  would 
not  bear  the  light,  but  to  keep  the 
wind  of  passing  trouble  from  visiting 
the  aged  cheek  they  loved  and  re- 
vered and  guarded. 

In  three  days  the  notary  called 
again.  The  poor  soul  seemed  a  lit- 
tle downcast.  He  had  been  to  Bo- 
nard  and  made  no  impression  on 
liim  ;  and  to  tell  the  truth  had  been 
insulted  by  him,  or  next  door  to  it. 

On  this  they  were  all  greatly  dis- 
pirited. 

Maitre  Perrin  recovered  first.  He 
brightened  up  all  in  a  moment. 

"  I  have  an  idea,"  said  he ;  "  we 
shall  succeed  yet ;  ay,  and  perhaps 
put  all  tlie  liabilities  on  a  more  mod- 
erate scale  of  interest ;  meantime  —  " 
and  here  he  hesitated.     "  I  wish  you 


would  let  an  old  friend  be  your  bank- 
er and  advance  you  any  small  sums 
you  may  need  for  present  comforts  or 
conveniences." 

Laure's  eyes  thanked  him ;  but 
Josephine,  a  little  to  her  surprise,  put 
in  a  hasty  and  firm,  though  polite 
negative. 

The  notary  apologized  for  his  offi- 
ciousness,  and  said  :  — 

"  I  do  not  press  this  trifling  offer  of 
service  ;  but  pray  consider  it  a  per- 
manent otfer  which  at  any  time  you 
can  honor  me  by  accepting." 

He  addressed  this  to  Josephine  with 
the  air  of  a  subject  offering  one  little 
acorn  back  out  of  all  "  the  woods  and 
forests  "  to  his  sovereign. 

While  the  open  friend  of  Beaure- 
paire was  thus  exliibiting  his  zeal,  its 
clandestine  friend  was  making  a  chill- 
ing discovery  youth  and  romance 
have  to  make  on  their  road  to  old  age 
and  caution,  namely,  how  much  easier 
it  is  to  form  many  plans  than  to  carry 
out  one. 

This  boiling  young  heart  had  been 
going  to  do  wonders  for  her  he  adored, 
and  for  those  who  were  a  part  of  her. 
He  had  been  going  to  interest  the 
government  in  their  misfortunes,  — 
but  how  ■?  0,  "  some  way  or  other." 
Looked  at  closer  "some  way"  had 
proved  impracticable, and  "the other" 
unprecedented,  i.  e.  impossible. 

He  had  not  been  a  mere  dreamer  in 
her  cause,  either.  He  had  examined 
the  whole  estate  of  Beaurepaire,  and 
had  scientifically  surveyed,  on  one 
government  pretence  or  another,  two 
or  three  of  the  farms.  He  had  dis- 
covered to  his  great  joy  that  all  the 
farms  were  underlet ;  that  there  were 
no  leases  ;  so  that  an  able  and  zealous 
ngent  could  in  a  few  months  increase 
the  baroness's  income  thirty  per  cent. 
But  when  he  liad  got  this  valua- 
ble intelligence,  what  the  better  were 
they  or  he  ?  To  show  them  that  they 
were  not  so  poor  as  they  in  their 
aristocratical  incapacity  for  business 
thought  themselves,  he  must  first  win 
their  ear  :  and  how  could  he  do  this  1 
If  he   were   to   call   at  Beaurepaire, 


WHITE  LIES. 


45 


■word  would  come  down  ngain,  "not 
at  home  to  strangers  until  the  Boui'- 
bons  come  back."  If  he  wrote,  the 
answer  would  be  :  "  Monsieur,  I  un- 
derstand absolutely  nothing  of  busi- 
ness. Be  kind  enough  to  make  your 
communication  to  our  man  of  busi- 
ness," —  who  must  be  either  incapable 
or  dishonest,  argued  young  Kiviere, 
or  their  affairs  would  not  be  thus 
vilely  neglected ;  ten  to  one  he  receives 
a  secret  commission  from  the  farmers 
to  keep  the  rents  low :  so  no  good 
could  come  of  applying  to  him,  —  and 
here  stepped  in  a  little  bit  of  self,  — 
for  there  are  no  angels  upon  earth 
except  in  a  bad  novel,  and  the  poor 
boy  was  not  writing  a  bad  novel,  but 
acting  his  little  part  in  the  real  world. 

"  No  !  "  said  he,  "  /  have  found 
this  out :  perhaps  she  will  never  love 
me,  but  at  least  I  will  have  her 
thanks,  and  the  pride  and  glory  of 
having  done  her  and  them  a  great 
service  :  no  undeserving  person  shall 
rob  me  of  this,  nor  even  share  it  with 
me." 

And  here  came  the  heart-breaking 
thing.  The  prospect  of  a  formal 
acquaintance  receded  instead  of  ad- 
vancing. 

In  the  first  place,  his  own  heart 
interposed  a  fresh  obstacle  :  the  deeper 
he  fell  in  love  the  more  his  assurance 
dwindled ;  and,  since  he  found  out 
they  were  so  very  poor,  he  was  more 
timid  still,  and  they  seemed  to  him 
more  sacred  and  inaccessible,  for  he 
felt  in  his  own  soul  how  proud  and 
distant  he  should  be  if  he  was  a 
pauper. 

The  next  calamity  was,  the  young 
ladies  never  came  out  now.  Strange 
to  say,  he  had  no  sooner  confided  his 
love  and  his  hopes  to  Jacintha,  than 
she  he  loved  kept  the  house  with 
cruel  pertinacity.  "  Had  Jacintha 
been  so  mad  as  to  go  and  prattle  in 
spite  of  her  promise?  had  the  young 
lady's  delicacy  been  alarmed  ?  was 
she  imprisoning  herself  to  avoid  meet- 
ing one  whose  admiration  annoyed 
her?" 

A  cold  perspiration  broke  over  him. 


whenever  his  perplexed  mind  came 
round  to  this  thought. 

Now  the  poor  cannot  afford  to  lose 
what  the  rich  can  fiing  away. 

The  sight  of  that  sweet  face  for  a 
moment  thrice  a  Avcek  was  not  much, 
—  ah!  but  it  was,  for  it  was  all, — 
his  one  bit  of  joy  and  comfort  and 
sunshine  and  hope,  —  and  it  was  gone 
now.  The  loss  of  it  kept  him  at 
fever  heat  every  day  of  his  life  for  an 
hour  or  two  before  their  usual  time  of 
coming  out  and  an  hour  or  two  after 
it,  and  chill  at  heart  the  rest  of  the 
day :  and  he  lost  his  color  and  his 
appetite,  and  fretted  and  pined  for  this 
one  look  three  times  a  week.  And 
she  who  could  have  healed  this  wound 
with  a  glance  of  her  violet  eye  and  a 
smile  once  or  twice  a  week,  she  who 
without  committing  herself  or  caring 
a  straw  for  him  could  have  brought 
the  color  back  to  this  young  check 
and  the  warmth  to  this  chilled  heart 
by  just  shining  out  of  doors  now  and 
then  instead  of  in,  sat  at  home  with  un- 
paralleled barbarity  and  perseverance. 

At  last  one  day  he  lost  all  patience. 
I  must  see  Jacintha,  said  he,  and, if  she 
really  imprisons  herself  to  avoid  me, 
I  will  leave  the  country,  —  I  will  go 
into  the  army, — it  is  very  hard  she 
should  be  robbed  of  her  health  and 
her  walk  because  I  love  her ;  and  with 
this  generous  resolution  the  poor  lit- 
tle fellow  felt  something  rise  in  his 
throat  and  nearly  choke  him,  till  a 
tear  came  to  his  relief.  Forgive  him, 
ladies  :  though  a  statesman,  he  was 
but  a  boy,  — boys  will  cry  after  women 
as  children  for  toys.  You  may  have 
observed  this  ! 

He  walked  hurriedly  up  to  Beaure- 
paire,  asking  himself  how  he  should 
contrive  an  interview  with  Jacintha. 

On  his  arrival  there,  casting  his 
eyes  over  the  palings,  what  did  he 
see  but  the  two  young  ladies  walking 
in  the  park  at  a  considerable  distance 
from  the  house. 

His  heart  gave  a  leap  at  the  sight 
of  them. 

Then  he  had  a  sudden  inspiration. 
The  park  was  not  strictly  private,  at 


46 


WHITE  LIES. 


least  since  the  Revolution.  Still  it  was 
so  far  private  that  respectable  people 
did  not  make  a  practice  of  crossing  it. 

I  will  seem  to  meet  them  unexpect- 
edly, thought  young  Riviere,  and, 
if  she  smiles,  I  will  apologize  for 
crossing  the  park  ;  then  I  shall  have 
spoken  to  her.  I  shall  have  broken 
the  ice. 

He  met  them.  They  looked  so 
loftily  sad  he  had  not  the  courage  to 
address  them.  He  bowed  respectfully, 
they  courtesied,  and  he  passed  on 
cursing   his   cowardice. 

I  must  see  Jacintha.  He  made  a 
long  detour ;  his  object  being  to  get 
where  he  could  be  seen  from  the 
kitchen. 

Meantime  the  following  short  dia- 
logue passed  between  the  sisters  :  — 

Laure.  "  Wliy,  he  has  lost  his  col- 
or !     What  a  pity  ! " 

Josephine.    "  Who,  dear?  " 

Laure.  "  That  young  gentleman 
who  passed  us  just  now.  Did  you 
not  observe  how  pale  he  has  turned. 
He  has  been  ill.     I  am  so  soiry." 

Josephine.     "  Who  is  he  "? " 

TMure.  "  I  don't  know  who  he  is ; 
I  know  what  he  is,  though." 

Josephine.    "  And  what  is  he  ?  " 

Laure.  "  He  is  very  hand.some  ; 
and  he  passes  us  oftener  than  seems 
to  me  quite  natural ;  and  now  I  think 
of  it,"  said  Laure,  opening  her  eyes 
ludicrously,  "  I  have  a  sister  who  is 
a  beautiful  woman  ;  and  now  I  think 
of  it  again," —  opening  her  eyes  still 
wider,  —  "if  I  do  not  lock  her  up,  I 
shall  perhaps  have  a  rival  in  her  affec- 
tions." 

Josephine.  "  Child !  Moreover  he 
seemed  to  me  a  mere  boy." 

Laure  gave  a  toss  of  her  head,  and 
a  suspicious  look  at  Josephine. 

"  0  mademoiselle,  there  are  for- 
ward boys  as  well  as  backward  ones. 
But  I  shall  have  an  eye  on  you  both." 
Josephine  smiled  very  faintly  ; 
amidst  so  many  cares  she  was  hardly 
equal  to  wliat  she  took  for  gi-anted 
was  a  pure  jest  of  Laure's,  and  their 
conversation  returned  to  its  usual 
channels. 


Edouard  got  round  to  the  other  side 
of  tiie  chateau,  and  strolled  about 
outside  the  palings  some  thirty  yards 
from  the  kitchen  door ;  and  there  ho 
walked  slowly  about,  hoping  every 
moment  to  see  the  kitchen  door  open 
and  Jacintha  come  out.  He  was  dis- 
appointed ;  and,  after  hanging  about 
nearly  an  hour,  was  going  away  in 
despair,  when  a  window  at  the  top  of 
the  house  suddenly  opened,  and  Ja- 
cintha made  him  a  rapid  signal  with 
her  hand  to  go  nearer  the  public  road. 
He  obeyed ;  and  then  she  kept  him 
waiting  till  his  second  stock  of  pa- 
tience was  nearly  exliausted ;  but  at 
last  he  heard  a  rustle,  and  there  was 
her  comely  face  set  between  two  young 
acacias.  He  ran  to  her.  She  received 
him  with  a  rebuke. 

"  Is  that  the  way  to  do  ?  —  prowl- 
ing in  sight,  like  a  housebreaker." 

"  Did  any  one  see  me?" 

"  Yes  !  Mademoiselle  Laure  did  ; 
and,  what  is  more,  she  spoke  to  me, 
and  asked  me  who  you  were.  Of 
course  I  said  I  did  n't  know." 

"Oh!  did  you?" 

"  Then  she  asked  me  if  it  was  not 
the  young  monsieur  who  sent  them 
the  game.  Oh  !  I  forgot,  I  ought  to 
have  told  you  that  first.  When  they 
asked  me  about  the  game,  I  said,  '  It 
is  a  young  sportsman  that  takes  Dard 
out;  so  he  shot  some  on  the  baroness's 
land.'  I  was  obliged  to  say  that,  you 
know." 

"  Well,  but  you  spoke  the  truth." 

"You  don't  mean  that! — that  is 
odd ;  but  accidents  will  ha])pen. 
'  And  so  he  gave  some  of  it  to  Dard 
for  the  house,'  said  I.  But  the  next 
time  you  want  me,  don't  stand  sen- 
tinel for  all  the  world  to  see ;  make 
me  a  signal  and  then  slip  in  here,  and 
I  will  join  you." 

"  A  signal  ?  " 

Jacintha  put  her  hand  under  her 
apron  and  pulled  out  a  dish-clout. 

"  Hang  this  on  that  tree  out  there; 
then  I  shall  see  it  from  the  kitchen 
window  ;  so  then  I  shall  know  some- 
thing is  up.  Apropos,  what  is  up 
now?" 


WHITE  LIES. 


47 


"I  am  very  unhappy!  —  that  is 
up." 

"  Oh  !  you  must  expect  the  cold  fit 
as  well  as  the  hot  fit,  if  you  will  fall 
in  love,"  observed  Jacintha,  with  a 
cool  smile.  "  Why  did  n't  you  come 
to  me  before,  and  be  cheered  up. 
What  is  the  matter?" 

"Dear  Jacintha,  she  never  comes 
out  now.  What  is  to  become  of  me  if 
I  am  to  lose  the  very  sight  of  her  1 
Surely,  you  have  not  been  so  indis- 
creet as  to  tell  them  —  " 

"  There  is  a  question.  Do  you  see 
green  in  my  eye,  young  man  ?  " 

"  Then  ^hat  is  the  reason  ■?  —  there 
must  be  some  reason.  They  used  to 
walk  out;  pray,  pray,  tell  me  the 
reason." 

Jacintha's  morry  countenance  fell. 
"  My  poor  lid,"  said  she,  kindly, 
"don't  torment  yourself,  or  fancy  I 
have  been  such  an  ill  friend  to  you, 
or  such  a  novice,  as  to  put  them  on 
their  guard  against  you.  No  ;  it  is 
the  old  story,  —  want  of  money." 

"  That  keeps  them  in-doors  1  How 
can  that  be  ■?  " 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Jacintha,  "it  is 
just  as  well  you  have  come  to-day, 
for  if  you  had  come  this  time  yester- 
day I  could  not  have  told  you,  but  I 
overheard  them  yesternight.  My  son, 
it  is  for  want  of  clothes." 

Riviere  groaned,  and  looked  aghast 
at  her. 

"  Don't ! "  cried  the  faithful  servant, 
— "  don't  look  at  me  so,  or  I  shall 
give  way,  I  know  I  shall ;  nor  don't 
mistake  me  either, — they  have  plenty 
of  colored  dresses ;  old  ones,  but  very 
good  ones ;  but  it  is  their  black  dress- 
es that  are  worn  shabby ;  and  they 
can't  afford  to  buy  new ;  and  all  the 
old  dresses  are  colored,  and  it  goes 
against  their  hearts  to  go  flaunting  it. 
They  were  crying  last  night  to  think 
they  could  not  afford  even  to  mourn 
for  their  father,  but  must  come  out  in 
colors,  for  want  of  a  little  money." 

"Jacintha,    they    will    break    mv 
heart." 

"  So  it  seems  they  have  settled  not 
to  go  out  of  the  grounds  at  all.     Thus 


they  meet  nobody ;  so  now  they  can* 
wear  their  mourning  till  it  is  quite 
threadbare.  Ah,  my  son,  how  dif- 
ferent from  most  women,  that  can't 
forget  the  dead  too  quick,  and  come 
flaring  out  again.  And  to-morrow  is 
her  birthday.  I  mind  the  time  there 
was  one  beautiful  new  gown  sure  to 
be  laid  out  on  her  bed  that  daj',  if  not 
two.  Times  are  sadly  changed  with 
us,  monsieur." 

"  To-morrow  is  her  birthday  1 " 

"  Yes  ! " 

"Good  by,  Jacintha,  —  my  heart 
is  full.  'There!  good  by,  loyal 
heart,"  and  he  kissed  her  hastily, 
with  trembling  lips. 

"  Poor  boy !  —  don't  lose  my  clout, 
whatever  you  do  !  " 

She  uttered  this  caution  with  ex- 
treme anxiety,  and  at  the  top  of  her 
voice,  as  he  was  running  off  in  a 
strange  flutter. 

The  next  day  the  notary  bustled 
in  with  a  cheerful  air.  He  had  not  a 
moment  to  stay,  but  just  dropped  in 
to  say  that  he  thought  matters  were 
going  well,  and  that  he  should  be 
able  to  muzzle  Bonard. 

After  this  short  interview,  which 
was  with  the  young  ladies  only,  fur 
the  doctor  was  out,  away  bustled 
Perrin. 

It  was  about  an  hour  after  this,  — 
Josephine  was  reading  to  the  baroness, 
and  Laura  and  she  were  working,  — 
when  in  came  Jacintha,  and  made  a 
courtesy. 

' '  The  tree  is  come,  my  ladies. " 

"What  tree?"  inquired  the  bar- 
oness. 

"For  mademoiselle  to  plant,  ac- 
cording to  custom.  It  is  her  birth- 
day. Dard  has  brought  it ;  it  is  an 
acacia  this  time." 

"The  fiiithful  creature,"  cried  the 
baroness.  "  She  has  thought  of  this, 
—  and  we  forgot  it.  There,  bring 
me  my  shawl  and  hood.  I  will  not 
be  absent  from  the  ceremony." 

"But,  dear  mamma,"  put  in  Jose- 
phine, "  had  not  you  better  look  at  us 
from  the  window,  there  is  such  a  cold 
air  out  to-day  ?  " 


48 


WHITE  LIES. 


"  It  is  not  cold  enough  to  chill  a 
mother's  love.  My  first-born  !  "  cried 
the  old  lady,  with  a  burst  of  nature ; 
"  I  see  her  in  her  cradle  now.  Sweet 
little  cherub." 

In  a  few  minutes  they  were  all  out 
in  the  garden. 

Josephine  was  to  decide  where  she 
would  plant  her  tree. 

"  Only  remember,  mademoiselle," 
said  Jacintha,  "  it  will  not  always  be 
little  like  it  is  now.  You  must  not 
put  it  where  it  will  be  choked  up 
when  it  is  a  big  tree." 

"  0  no,  Jacintha,"  cried  Laure, 
"  we  will  plant  it  to  the  best  advan- 
tage." 

Then  one  advised  Josephine  to 
plant  it  on  the  south  terrace  ;  another 
preferred  the  turf  oval  between  the 
great  gate  and  the  north  side  of  the 
chateau.  When  they  had  said  their 
say,  to  their  surprise  Josephine  said 
rather  timidly,  "  I  should  like  to 
plant  it  in  the  Pleasance." 

"  In  the  Pleasance !  AVhy,  Jose- 
phine 1 " 

"  It  will  take  some  time  to  plant," 
explained  Josephine. 

"  But  it  will  take  no  more  time  to 
plant  it  where  it  will  show  than  in  the 
Pleasance,"  cried  Laure,  half  angri- 

■  "  But,  Laure,  the  Pleasance  is 
sheltered  from  the  wind,"  said 
Josephine. 

Dard  gave  a  snort  of  contempt. 

"  It  is  sheltered  to-day  because  the 
chateau  happens  to  be  between  the 
wind  and  it.  But  the  wind  will  not 
be  always  in  that  quarter;  and  the 
Pleasance  is  open  to  more  winds  than 
any  other  part,  if  you  go  to  that." 

"  Dear  mamma,  may  I  not  plant  it 
in  the  Pleasance  ? " 

"  Of  course  you  may,  my  child." 

"  And  who  told  you  to  put  in  your 
word ! "  cried  Jaciutha  to  Dard. 
"  You  are  to  take  up  your  spade  and 
dig  the  hole  where  mademoiselle  bids, 
—  that  is  M'hat  you  are  here  for,  not 
to  argufy." 

"  Laure,  I  admire  the  energy  of 
that  girl's  character,"  remarked  Jo- 


sephine, languidly,  as  they  all  made 
for  the  Pleasance. 

"  Where  will  you  have  if?  "  asked 
Dard,  roughly. 

"  Here,  I  think,  Dard,"  said  Jose- 
phine, sweetly. 

Dard  grinned  malignantly,  and 
drove  in  his  spade.  "  It  will  never  be 
much  bigger  than  a  stinging-nettle," 
thought  he,  "  for  the  roots  of  the  oak 
have  sucked  every  atom  of  heart  out 
of  this."  His  black  soul  exulted 
secretly. 

They  watched  his  work. 

"You  are  not  cold,  mamma?" 
asked  Josephine,  anxiously. 

"No!  no!"  said  the  baroness. 
"  There  is  no  wind  on  this  side  of  tlie 
house.  Ah  !  now  I  sec,  my  Jose- 
phine. I  have  a  very  good  daughter,  — 
who  will  never  shine  in  horticulture." 

Jacintha  stood  by  Dard,  inspecting 
his  work ;  the  three  ladies  stood  to- 
gether watching  him  at  the  distance 
of  a  few  feet;  on  their  right,  but  a 
little  behind  them,  was  the  great  oak. 
Close  behind  them  was  a  lemon-tree 
and  its  mould  in  an  immense  tub ; 
the  tub  was  rotting  at  the  sides.  Over 
the  mould  was  a  little  moss  here  and 
there. 

Now,  at  the  beginning  of  this  busi- 
ness, the  excitement  of  the  discussion, 
and  choosing  the  spot,  and  setting 
Dard  to  work,  had  animated  the  bar- 
oness as  well  as  her  daughter.  But 
now,  for  some  time  Dard  had  all  the 
excitement  to  himself.  They  had 
only  to  look  on  and  think  while  he 
wrought. 

"  0  dear,"  cried  Laure,  suddenly, 
"  mamma  is  crying.  Josephine,  our 
mother  is  crying !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  Josephine,  "  I  feared 
this.  I  did  not  want  her  to  come  out. 
O  my  mother !  my  mother !  " 

"  My  children,"  sobbed  the  baron- 
ess, "  it  is  very  natural.  I  cannot 
but  remember  how  often  we  have 
planted  a  tree  and  kept  the  poor  child's 
birthday  —  not  as  now.  Those  were 
on  earth  then  that  have  left  us  and 
gone  to  God.  Many  friends  stood 
around  us,  —  how  warm  their  hands. 


WHITE  LIES. 


49 


how  friendly  their  voices,  how  truth- 
ful their  eyes  !  Yet  they  have  aban- 
doned us.  Adversity  has  shaken 
them  off  as  the  frost  is  even  now 
stripping  off  your  leaves,  old  friend. 
These  tears  are  not  for  me !  0  no  ! 
thanks  to  God  and  the  Virgin  I  know 
whither  I  am  going,  and  whom  I  shall 
meet  again,  I  care  not  how  soon  ;  but 
it  is  to  think  I  must  leave  my  darlings 
behind  me  without  a  friend,  my  ten- 
der lambs  in  a  world  of  foxes  and 
wolves  without  a  friend  !  " 

"  My  mother,  we  have  friends !  We 
have  the  dear  doctor." 

"  A  savant,  Laure,  a  creatuix  more 
a  woman  than  a  woman ;  you  will 
have  to  take  care  of  him,  not  he  of 
you." 

"  We  have  our  own  love  !  did  ever 
a  sister  love  another  as  I  love  Jose- 
phine 1  " 

"  No  ! "  said  Josephine.  "  Yes  !  I 
love  you  as  much." 

"As  to  that,  yes,  you  will  fall  in 
one  another's  arms,"  said  the  baron- 
ess. •'  Ah  !  I  do  ill  to  weep  this  day ; 
my  children,  suffer  me  to  compose 
myself."  And  the  baroness  turned 
round,  and  applied  her  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes.  Her  daughters  withdrew  a 
step  or  two  in  the  opposite  direction  ; 
for  in  those  days  parents,  even  the 
most  affectionate,  maintained  a  marked 
superiority,  and  the  above  was  a  hint 
their  mother  would  be  alone  a  mo- 
ment. 

They  waited  respectfully  for  her 
orders  to  rejoin  her.  The  order  did 
come,  and  in  a  tone  that  surprised 
them. 

"  My  children,  come  here,  —  both  of 
you." 

They  found  the  baroness  poking 
among  the  moss  with  the  point  of  her 
ebony  crutch. 

"  This  is  a  purse,  and  it  is  not 
yours,  Laure,  nor  yours,  is  it  ?  " 

The  two  girls  looked,  and,  sure 
enough,  there  lay  among  the  green 
moss  in  the  tub  a  gi-een  silk  purse. 
They  eyed  it  like  startled  deer  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  Laure  pounced  on  it 
and  took  it  up. 

3 


"  0  how  heavy  !  "  she  cried.  Ja- 
cintha  and  Dard  came  running  up; 
Laure  poured  the  contents  into  her 
hand,  ten  gold  pieces  of  twenty  francs 
each  :  new  shining  gold  pieces.  Ja- 
cintha  gave  a  scream  of  joy,  a  sort  of 
victorious  war-whoop. 

"  Luck  is  turned,"  cried  she,  with 
joyful  superstition.  Laure  stood  with 
the  gold  pieces  glittering  in  her  pink 
white  palm,  and  her  face  blushing  all 
over  and  beaming,  and  her  eyes  glit- 
tering with  excitement  and  pleasure. 
Their  amazement  was  great. 

"  And  here  is  a  paper,"  cried  Jose- 
phine, eagerly,  bending  over  the  moss 
and  taking  up  a  small  piece  of  paper 
folded ;  she  opened  it  rapidly,  and 
showed  it  them  all ;  it  contained  these 
words,  ip  a  copperplate  hand  :  — 

"  From  a  friend,  —  in  part  payment 
of  a  qreat  debt." 

And  now  all  of  a  sudden  Josephine 
began  to  blush  ;  and  gradually  not 
only  her  face  but  her  neck  blushed  all 
over,  and  even  her  white  forehead 
glowed  like  a  rose. 

"  Who  could  it  be  ?  "  that  was  the 
question  that  echoed  on  all  sides. 

The  baroness  solved  it  for  them  r 
"  It  is  St.  Aubin." 

"  0  mamma !  he  has  not  ten  gold 
pieces." 

"  Who  knows  1  he  has  perhaps 
found  some  bookseller  who  has  bought 
his  work  on  insects."  * 

"  No,  mamma,"  said  Laure ;  "  I 
cannot  think  this  is  our  dear  doctor's 
doing.  It  is  odd,  too,  his  being  out 
of  the  way  at  this  hour  :  I  never  knew 
him  anywhere  but  at  his  books  till 
two.  Hush !  hush  !  —  here  he  comes ; 
let  us  circumvent  him  on  the  spot : 
this  is  fun." 

"  Give  mc  the  purse,"  said  the 
baroness,  "  and  you,  Jacintha  and 
Dard,  recommence  your  work." 

When  the  Doctor  came  up,  he 
found  Dard  at  work,  Jacintha  stand- 
ing by  him,  and  the  ladies  entirely 
occupied  in  looking  on.  The  baron- 
ess explained  to  him  what  was  going 
on.  He  showed  considerable  interest 
in  it. 


50 


WHITE  LIES. 


Presently  the  baroness  put  her 
hand  in  her  pocket,  and  gave  her 
daughters  a  look  ;  four  eyes  were  in- 
stantly levelled  at  the  doctor's  face. 
Stand  firm,  doctor ;  if  there  is  a 
crevice  in  your  coat  of  mail,  those 
eyes  will  pierce  it. 

"  By  the  by,"  said  the  baroness, 
with  perfect  nonchalance,  "  you  have 
dropped  your  purse  here ;  we  have 
just  picked  it  up";  and  she  handed 
it  him. 

"  Thank  you,  madame,"  said  he, 
and  he  took  it  carelessly  ;  "  this  is 
not  mine,  —  it  is  too  heavy,  —  and, 
now  I  think  of  it,"  continued  the  sa- 
vant, with  enviable  simplicity,  "  I 
have  not  carried  a  purse  this  twenty 
years.  No !  I  put  ray  silver  in  my 
right  waistcoat-pocket,  and  jny  gold 
in  my  left,  that  is,  I  should,  but  I 
never  have  any." 

"  Doctor,  on  your  honor,  did  you 
not  leave  this  purse  and  this  paper 
there  ?  " 

The  doctor  examined  the  paper. 
Meantime  Laure  explained  to  him 
what  had  occun-ed. 

"  Madame  the  baroness,"  said  he, 
"  I  have  been  your  friend  and  pen- 
sioner nearly  twenty  years ;  if  by 
some  strange  chance  money  were  to 
come  into  my  hands,  I  should  not 
play  you  a  childish  trick  like  this  of 
which  you  seem  to  suspect  me.  I 
have  the  right'  to  come  to  you  and 
say,  '  My  old  friend,  here  I  bring 
you  back  a  small  part  of  all  I  owe 

you.'" 

"  My  friend  !  my  friend  !  I  was 
stupid  ;  tell  us  then  who  is  our  secret 
friend  ?  may  Heaven  bless  him !  " 

"Let  us  reflect,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  Ah !  to  be  sure.  I  would  lay  my 
life  it  is  he  !  " 

"  Who  1  " 

"  A  very  honest  man,  whom  you 
have  treated  harshly,  madame ;  it  is 
Perrin,  the  notary  !  " 

It  was  the  baroness's  turn  to  be 
surprised. 

"  I  may  as  well  confess  to  you, 
madame,  that  I  have  lately  had  more 
than  one  interview  with  Perrin,  and 


that,  although  he  is  naturally  hurt  at 
the  severity  with  which  you  treated 
him,  his  regard  for  you  ia  undimin' 
ished." 

"  I  am  as  grateful  as  possible,"  said 
the  baroness,  with  a  fine  and  scarcely 
perceptible  sneer. 

"  Laure,"  said  Josephine,  "  it  is  cu- 
rious, but  Monsieur  Perrin  was  here 
for  a  minute  or  two  to-day ;  and  really 
he  did  not  seem  to  have  anything 
particular  to  say." 

"  There  !  "  shouted  the  doctor,  — 
"  there  !  he  came  to  leave  the  purse. 
And  in  doing  so  lie  was  only  carrying 
out  an  intention  he  had  already  de- 
clared." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  the  baroness. 

"  He  oficred  to  advance  money  in 
small  sums  ;  an  offer  that  of  course 
was  declined.  So  he  was  driven  to 
this  manoeuvre.  There  are  honest 
hearts  among  the  notaries." 

While  the  doctor  was  enforcing 
his  views  on  the  baroness,  Josephine 
and  Laure  slipped  away  round  the 
house. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  said  Laure. 

"  It  is  not  the  doctor ;  and  it  is  not 
Perrin,  —  of  course  not.  But  who  is 
it?" 

"  Laure,  don't  yon  think  it  is  some 
one  who  has  at  all  events  delicate 
sentiments'? " 

"  Clearly,  and  therefore  not  a  no- 
tary." 

"Laure,  dear,  might  it  not  be 
some  person  who  has  done  us  some 
wrong,  and  is  perhaps  penitent  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Laure.  "  Such  a 
person  might  make  restitution,  —  one 
of  our  tenants,  or  creditors,  you 
mean,  I  suppose  ;  but  the  paper  says 
'a  friend.'  Stay,  it  says  a  debtor! 
Whv  a  debtor  1      Down   with  enig- 


mas 


I" 


"  Laure,  dear,   think  of  some  one 
that  might — " 

"  I  can't.     I  am  quite  at  a  loss." 
"  Since   it  is   not  the   doctor,  nor 
Monsieur  Perrin,  might  it  not  be  — 
for,  after  all,  he  would  naturally  be 
ashamed  to  appear  before  me." 
I      "  Before  .you  ?  " 


WHITE   LIES. 


51 


"  Yes,  Laurc,  is  it  quite  certain  that 
it  might  not  be  —  " 

"  Who  ■?  "  asked  Laure,  nervously, 
catdiing  a  glimpse  now. 

"  He  who  once  pretended  to  love 
me!" 

"  Camille  Dujardin  ?  " 

"  It  was  not  I  who  mentioned  his 
name,"  cried  Josephine,  hastily. 

Laure  turned  pale. 

"  O,  mo/i  Dieu  !  mon  Dieu !  "  she 
cried.     "  She  loves  that  man  still." 

"No!  no!  no!" 

"  You  love  him  just  the  same  as 
ever,  O,  it  is  wonderful  —  it  is  terri- 
ble—  the  power  this  man  has  over 
you,  — over  your  judgment  as  well  as 
your  heart." 

"  No  !  for  I  believe  he  has  forgot- 
ten my  very  name ;  don't  you  tliink 
so?" 

"  Dear  Josephine,  can  you  doubt 
if?" 

"  Forgive  me." 

"  Come,  you  do  doubl  it." 

"  I  do." 

"  Why  ■?  for  wliat  reason  1 " 

"  Because  the  words  he  said  to  me 
aa  we  parted  at  that  gate  lie  still  at 
ray  heart :  and  oh,  my  sister,  the 
voice  we  love  seems  the  voice  of  truth 
itself.  He  said, '  I  am  to  join  the  army 
of  the  Pyrenees,  so  fatal  to  our  troops  ; 
but  say  to  me  what  you  never  yet 
have  said,  "  Camille,  I  love  you,"  — 
and  I  swear  I  will  come  back  alive.' 

"  So,  then,  I  said  to  him,  '  I  love 
you,'  — and  ho  never  came  back." 

"  How  could  he  come  here  ?  a  de- 
serter, —  a  traitor  !  " 

"  It  is  not  true  !  it  is  not  in  his  na- 
ture ;  inconstancy  may  be.  Tell  me 
that  he  never  really  loved  me,  and  I 
will  believe  you  ;  but  not  that  he  is  a 
coward.  Let  me  weep  over  my  past 
love,  not  blush  for  it." 

"  Past  1  You  love  him  to-day  as 
you  did  three  years  ago  !  " 

"  No  !  I  tell  you  I  do  not.  I  love 
no  one.  I  never  shall  love  any  one 
again." 

"But  him.  It  is  that  love  which 
turns  your  heart  against  others.  You 
love  him,  dearest,  or  why  should  you 


fancy  our  secret  benefactor  could  be 
Camille  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  Because  I  was  mad  !  be- 
cause it  is  impossible ;  but  I  see  my 
folly.     Let  us  go  in,  my  sister." 

"  Go,  love,  1  will  follow  you  ;  but 
don't  you  care  to  know  who  /  think 
left  the  purse  for  us  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Josephine,  sadly  and 
doggedly ;  she  added  with  cold  non- 
chalance, "  I  dare  say  time  will 
show  "  ;  and  she  went  slowly  in,  her 
hand  to  her  head. 

"  Her  birthday  !  " 


CHAPTER   VL 

"I  WILL  see  her  tree  planted," 
thought  Laure,  "  for  she  has  forgot- 
ten it,  and  everything,  and  everybody 
but  that  —  " 

And  she  ran  off  to  join  the  group. 
Turning  the  corner  rapidly,  she  found 
Jacintha  suspiciously  near :  and,  above 
all,  walking  away  towards  the  tree : 
away  from  where  ? 

Laure  burned  with  anger,  and,  as 
she  passed  Jacintha,  she  wheeled  about, 
and  gave  her  a  look  like  red  lightning. 
It  came  like  a  slap  in  the  face.  Ja- 
cintha, meantime,  had  got  ready  an 
amazing  dogged,  unconscious  face ; 

"  And  o'er  the  impassive  ice  the  lightnings 
play." 

This  gallant  and  praiseworthy  effort 
was  but  partially  successful.  She 
could  command  her  features,  but  not 
her  blood  :  she  felt  it  burn  her  cheek 
under  the  fire  of  Laure's  eye.  And 
in  the  evening,  when  Laure  suddenly 
beckoned  to  her,  and  said  in  a  signifi- 
cant way,  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you, 
Jacintha,"  the  faithful  domestic  felt 
like  giving  way  at  the  knees  and  sink- 
ing down  flat ;  so  she  stood  up  like 
Notre  Dame  outwardly,  and  wore  an 
expression  of  satisfaction  and  agreea- 
ble expectation  on  her  impenetrable 
mug. 

Laure  drove  in  an  eye. 

"  Who  put  that  purse  there  ?  "  sho 
asked  in  a  half-threatening  tone. 


52 


WHITE  LIES. 


"  Maclemoi.selle  Laure,  I  don't  know, 
but  I  have  my  suspicions  ;  and  if 
mademoiselle  will  give  me  a  few 
days,  I  think  I  can  find  out  for 
sure." 

"  How  many  days  ?  because  I  am 
impatient." 

"  Say  a  fortnight,  mademoiselle." 

"  That  is  a  long  time ;  well,  it  is 
agreed." 

And  so  these  two  parted  without  a 
word  openly  uttered  on  cither  side 
about  that  which  was  uppermost  in 
both  their  minds. 

"Come,"  thought Jacintha,  "lam 
well  out  of  it :  if  I  can  find  that  out, 
she  won't  give  it  me  for  listening  ;  and 
it  is  a  fair  bargain,  especially  for  me, 
for  I  know  who  left  the  purse  ;  but  I 
was  n't  going  to  tell  her  that  all  in  a 
moment." 

Now  Jacintha,  begging  her  pardon, 
did  not  know;  but  she  strongly  sus- 
pected young  Riviere  of  being  the 
culprit  who  had  invented  this  new 
sort  of  burglary,  —  breaking  into 
honest  folk's  premises  in  the  dead  of 
night,  and  robbing  them  of  their  pov- 
erty, instead  of  their  wealth,  like  the 
good  old-fashioned  burglars. 

She  waited  quietly,  expecting  every 
day  to  see  her  dish-clout  waving  from 
the  tree  at  the  back,  and  to  hear  him 
tell  her  of  his  own  accord  how  clever- 
ly he  had  done  the  trick. 

No. 

Day  after  day  passed  away,  and  no 
clout.  The  fortnight  was  melting, 
and  Jacintha's  patience.  She  re- 
solved :  and  one  morning  she  cut  two 
bunches  of  grapes,  and  pulled  some 
nectarines,  put  them  in  a  basket,  cov- 
ered them  with  a  napkin,  and  called 
on  M.  Edouard  Riviere  at  his  lodging. 
She  was  ushered  into  that  awful  pres- 
ence ;  and,  so  long  as  the  servant  was 
in  hearing,  all  her  talk  was  about  the 
fruit  she  had  brought  him  in  return 
for  his  game.  The  servant  being 
gone,  she  dropped  the  mask. 

"Well,  it  is  all  right!"  said  she, 
smiling  and  winking. 

"  What  is  all  right  ?  " 

"  They  have  got  the  purse  !  " 


"  Have  they  !  What  purse  I 
don't  know  what  you  allude  to." 

"  No,  of  course  not,  Mr.  Inno- 
cence :  you  did  not  leave  a  purse 
full  of  gold  up  at  Bcaurepaire  ! ! !  !" 

"  Well,  I  never  said  I  did  :  purses 
full  of  gold  are  luxuries  Avith  which  I 
am  little  acquainted." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Jacintha,  biting 
her  lip ;  "  then  you  and  I  are  friends 
no  longer,  that  is  all." 

"  0  yes,  we  are." 

"  No !  if  you  can't  trust  me,  you 
are  no  friend  of  mine  ;  ingrate  !  to 
try  and  deceive  ?«e.  I  know  it  was 
you  !  " 

"  AVcll,  if  you  know,  why  ask  me  1  " 
retorted  Edouard,  sharply. 

"  Better  snap  my  nose  off,  had  you 
not  ?  "  said  Jacintha,  reproachfully. 
"  Confess  it  is  odd  your  not  showing 
more  curiosity  about  it.  Looks  as  if 
you  knew  all  about  it,  eh  1  " 

"  But  I  am  curious,  and  I  wish  to 
Heaven  you  would  tell  me  what  it  is 
all  about,  instead  of  taking  it  into 
your  head  that  I  know  already." 

"  Well,  I  will." 

So  Jacintha  told  him  all  about  the 
baroness  finding  the  purse,  and  on 
whom  their  suspicions  had  fallen. 

"  I  wish  it  had  been  /,"  said  Ed- 
ouard ;  "  but  tell  me,  dear,  has  it  been 
of  service,  has  it  contributed  to  their 
comfort  1  that  is  the  principal  thing, 
—  not  who  gave  it." 

On  this  Jacintha  reflected,  and  fix- 
ing her  gray  eye  on  him  she  said : 
"  Unluckily  there  were  just  two 
pieces  two  few." 

"  What  a  pity." 

"No  one  of  my  ladies  ever  buys  a 
new  dress  without  the  others  having 
one  too ;  now  they  found  it  would 
take  two  more  gold  pieces  to  give  my 
three  ladies  a  new  suit  of  mourning 
each.  So  the  money  is  put  by  till  they 
can  muster  the  other  two." 

"  What,  then,"  cried  Edouard,  "  I 
must  not  hope  to  see  them  out  again 
any  the  more  for  this  money  1  " 

"  No !  you  see  it  was  not  quite 
enough." 

Riviere's  countenance  fell. 


WHITE  LIES. 


53 


"  Well,"  said  Jacintha,  assuming  a 
candid  tone,  "  I  see  it  was  not  you, 
but  really  at  first  I  suspected  you." 

"  It  is  nothing  to  be  asliumed  of,  if 
I  had  done  it." 

"No!  indeed.  How  foolish  to  sus- 
pect you,  was  it  not  ?  You  shall 
have  the  grapes  all  the  same." 

"  0,  thank  you  :  they  come  from 
Beaurepaire  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Good  by.  Don't  be  sad. 
They  will  come  out  again  as  soon  as 
they  can  afford  the  mourning  "  ;  she 
added,  with  sudden  warmth,  "  you 
have  not  lost  my  clout  J  " 

"No!  no!" 

"  You  had  better  give  it  me  back  : 
then  my  mind  will  be  at  ease." 

"  No,  excuse  me  ;  it  is  my  only  way 
of  getting  a  word  with  you." 

"  Why,  you  have  never  used  it." 

"  But  I  may  want  to  any  day." 

Jacintha,  as  she  went  home  with 
her  empty  basket,  knitted  her  black 
brows,  and  recalled  the  scene,  and 
argued  the  matter  pro  and  con. 

"  I  don't  know  why  he  should  face 
it  out  like  that  with  me  if  it  was  he. 
Ah  !  but  he  would  have  been  jealous, 
and  a  deal  more  inquisitive  if  it  was 
not  he.  Well,  anyway  I  have  put  him 
off"  his  guard,  and  won't  I  watch 
him  !  If  it  is  he,  I  '11  teach  him  to 
try  and  draw  the  wool  over  Jacin- 
tha's  eyes,  and  she  his  friend,  —  the 
monster." 

Fortune  co-operated  with  these 
malignant  views.  This  very  even- 
ing Dard  declared  himself,  —  that 
is,  after  proposing  by  implication  and 
probable  inference  for  the  last  seven 
years,  he  made  a  direct  offbr  of  his 
hand  and  digestive  organs. 

Now  this  gave  Jacintha  great  pleas- 
ure. She  could  have  kissed  the  little 
fellow  on  the  spot. 

So  she  said,  in  an  off'-hand  way : 
"  Well,  Dard,  if  I  were  to  take  any 
one,  it  sliould  be  you  :  but  I  have 
pretty  well  made  up  my  mind  not  to 
marry  at  all :  at  all  events  till  my 
mistress  can  spare  me." 

"  Gammon  !  "  shouted  Dard,  "  that 
is  what  they  all  say." 


"  AVell,  what  everybody  says  must 
be  true,"  said  Jacintlia,  equivocating 
unworthily. 

"  Not  unless  they  stick  to  it,"  ob- 
jected Dard.  "And  that  is  a  song 
they  all  drop  at  the  chiirch  door,  when 
they  do  get  a  chance." 

"  Well,  I  am  not  in  such  a  hurry 
as  to  snap  at  such  a  small  chance,"  re- 
torted Jacintha,  with  a  toss  of  her 
head. 

So  then  the  polite  swain  had  to 
mollify  her. 

"  Well,  Dard,"  said  she,  "one  good 
turn  deserves  another  :  if  I  am  to 
marry  you,  what  will  you  do  for  me  ?  " 

Dard  gave  a  glowing  description  of 
what  he  would  do  for  lier  as  soon  as 
she  was  his  wife. 

She  let  him  know  that  was  not  the 
point :  what  would  he  do  for  her  Jirst. 

He  would  do  anything,  —  every- 
thing. 

We  do  know 
When  the  blood    burns    how  prodigal    the 

heart 
Lends  the  tongue  vows.  —  Hamlet. 

This  brought  the  contracting  par 
ties  to  an  understanding. 

First,  under  a  vow  of  secrecy,  she 
told  him  young  Riviere  was  in  love 
with  Josephine,  and  she  was  his  con- 
fidante ;  then  she  told  him  how  the 
youth  had  insulted  her  by  attempting 
to  deceive  her  about  the  purse ;  and, 
finally,  Dard  must  watch  his  move- 
ments by  night  and  day,  that  between 
them  they  might  catch  him  out. 

Dard  made  a  wry  face,  —  dolus 
latet  in  generalihus  [free  translation, 
"anything  means  nothing"];  when 
he  vowed  to  do  anything,  everything, 
what  not,  and  such  small  phrases,  he 
never  intended  to  do  anything  in  par- 
ticular :  but  he  was  in  for  it;  and 
sentinel  and  spy  were  added  to  his 
little  odd  jobs.  For  the  latter  office 
his  apparent  stolidity  qualified  him, 
and  so  did  his  petty  but  real  astute- 
ness ;  moreover,  he  was  daily  primed 
by  Jacintha,  —  a  good  soul,  but  no 
Nicodema.  Meantime  St.  Aubin  up- 
held Perrin  as  the  secret  benefactor, 
and  bade  them  all  observe  that  sinco 


54 


WHITE  LIES. 


that  day  the  notary  had  never  been 
to  tlie  chateau. 

The  donor,  whoever  he  was,  little 
knew  the  pain  he  was  inflieting  on 
this  distressed  but  proud  family ;  or 
the  hard  battle  that  ensued  between 
their  necessities  and  their  delicacy ! ! 
The  ten  gold  pieces  were  a  perpetual 
temptation,  a  daily  conflict. 

The  words  that  accompanied  the 
donation  offered  an  excuse,  and  their 
poverty  enforced  it.  Their  pride  and 
dignity  opposed  it ;  but  these  bright 
bits  of  gold  cost  them  many  a  sharp 
pans:. 

The  figures  Jacintha  laid  before 
Riviere  were  j)urely  imaginary.  A 
mere  portion  of  tlie  two  hundred 
fraiics  would  have  enabled  the  poor 
girls  to  keep  up  appearances  with  the 
outside  world,  and  yet  to  mourn  their 
father  openly.  And  it  went  through 
and  through  those  tender,  simple 
hearts,  to  think  that  they  must  be  dis- 
united, —  even  in  so  small  a  thing  as 
dress ;  that,  while  their  mother  re- 
mained in  her  weeds,  they  must  seem 
no  longer  to  share  her  woe. 

The  baroness  knew  their  feeling, 
and  felt  its  piety,  and  yet  must  not 
say,  Take  five  of  these  bits  of  gold,  and 
let  us  all  look  what  we  are,  —  one. 

Yet  in  this,  as  in  everything  else, 
they  came  tp  be  all  of  one  mind. 
They  resisted,  they  struggled,  and  with 
a  wrench  tliey  conquered  day  by  day. 

At  last,  by  general  consent,  they 
locked  up  the  tempter,  and  looked  at 
it  no  more. 

But  the  little  bit  of  paper  met  a 
kinder  fite.  Laure  made  a  little 
frame  for  it,  and  it  was  kept  in  a 
drawer  in  the  salon,  and  often  looked 
at  and  blessed.  Their  mother  had 
despaired  of  human  friendship,  and 
with  despondency  on  her  lips  she  had 
found  this  paper  with  the  sacred  word 
"  friend  "  written  on  it :  it  fell  all  in  a 
moment  on  their  aching  hearts. 

They  could  not  tell  whence  it  came, 
. —  tills  blessed  word. 

But  who  can  tell  whence  comes  the 
dew? 
,     >Science  is  in  two  minds  about  that. 


Then  let  me  go  with  the  Poets, 
who  say  it  comes  from  Heaven  :  we 
shall  not  go  far  wrong  assigning  any 
good  thing  to  that  source. 

And  even  so  that  sweet  word 
"  friend  "  dropped  like  the  dew  from 
Heaven  on  these  afflicted  ones. 

So  they  locked  the  potent  gold 
away  from  themselves,  and  took  the 
kind  slip  of  jjapcr  to  their  hearts. 
Aristo  v(i. 

The  fortnight  elapsed,  and  Ja- 
cintha was  no  wiser.  She  ha^l  to  beg 
a  respite.  Laure  conceded  it  with  an 
austere  brow,  smiling  inwardly. 

Meantime  Dard,  Jacintba's  little 
odd  sentinel,  spy,  gardener,  lover,  and 
all  that,  wormed  himself  with  rustic 
cuiming  into  the  statesboy's  confidence. 

Treachery  met  its  retribution.  The 
statesboy  made  him  his  factotum,  — • 
i.  e.  yet  another  set  of  little  odd  jobs 
fell  on  him.  Ho  had  always  been 
struck  by  their  natural  variety ;  but 
now  what  with  Jarintha's  and  what 
with  Iliviere's  they  seemed  infinite. 

At  one  hour  he  would  be  hold- 
ing a  long  chain  while  Riviere  meas- 
ured the  lands  of  Beaurepaire  :  at 
another  he  would  be  set  to  pump  a 
farmer.  Then  it  would  be,  "  Back, 
Dard  ! "  this  meant  he  was  to  stand 
in  a  crescent  while  Edouard  wrote  a 
long  calculation  or  made  a  sketch 
upon  him,  compendious  writing-desk. 

Then  O,  luxury  of  luxuries,  he  the 
laziest  of  the  human  race,  though 
through  the  malice  of  fate  tiie  hardest 
worked,  had  to  call  citizen  Riviere  in 
the  morning  ! 

At  night  after  all  his  toil  be  could 
count  upon  the  refreshment  of  being 
scolded  by  Jacintha  because  he 
brought  home  the  wrong  sort  of  in- 
formation, and  had  not  the  talent  to 
coin  the  right.  lie  did  please  her 
twice  though  ;  the  first  time  was  when 
he  told  her  they  were  measuring  the 
lands  of  Beaurepaire  ;  and  again  when 
he  found  out  the  j'oung  citizen's 
salary,  four  hundred  francs  on  the 
first  of  every  month. 

"  That  brat  to  have  four  hundred 
francs   a   month  1 "    cried    Jacintha. 


WHITE  LIES. 


*  Dard,  I  will  give  you  a  good  supper 
to-nii;ht." 

Dard  believed  in  her  affection  for  a 
moment,  for  with  one  of  his  kidney 
the  proof  of  the  pudding,  &c. 

"And  whilst  I  am  cooking  it  here 
is  a  little  job  for  you,  —  to  fill  up  the 
time." 

"  Ugh  ! " 

Jacintha  had  blacked  twenty  yards 
of  string,  and  cut  down  half  a  dozen 
bells  that  were  never  used  now. 

"  You  shall  put  them  up  again 
when  times  mend,"  said  she. 

All  Dard  had  to  do  now  was  to 
draw  a  wide  magic  circle  all  around 
the  lemon-tree,  and  so  fix  the  bells 
that  they  should  be  out  of  sight,  and 
should  ring  if  a  foot  came  against  the 
invisible  string. 

This  little  odd  job  was  from  that 
night  incorporated  into  Dard's  daily 
existence.  He  had  to  set  the  trap 
and  bells  at  dusk  every  evening,  and 
from  that  moment  till  bedtime  Ja- 
cintha went  about  her  work  with  half 
her  mind  out  of  doors,  half  in,  and 
her  ear  on  full  cock. 

One  day  St.  Aubin  met  tlie  notary 
ambling.  He  stopped  him,  and  hold- 
ing up  his  finger  said  playfully  :  — 

"  We  have  found  you  out." 

The  notary  turned  pale. 

"  O,"  cried  the  doctor,  "  this  is 
pusliing  sensibility  too  far." 

The  notary  stammered. 

"  A  good  action  done  slyly  is  none 
the  less  a  good  action." 

This  explanation  completed  the 
notary's  mystification. 

"  But  you  are  a  worthy  man,"  cried 
St.  Aul)in,  warming. 

The  notary  bowed. 

"  They  cannot  profit  by  your  liber- 
ality, but  they  feel  it  deeply.  And 
you  will  be  rewarded  in  a  better 
world.     It  is  I  who  tell  you  so." 

Tlie  notary  muttered  indistinctly. 
He  was  a  man  of  moderate  desires  ; 
would  have  been  quite  content  if 
there  had"  been  no  other  world  in  per- 
spective. He  had  studied  this,  and 
made  it  pay,  —  did  not  desire  abetter, 
—  sometimes  feared  a  worse. 


"Ah!"  said  Monsieur  St.  Aubin, 
"  I  see  how  it  is  ;  we  do  not  like  to 
liear  ourselves  praised,  do  we  1  When 
shall  we  see  you  at  the  chateau  ■?  " 

"  As  soon  as  I  have  good  news  to 
bring."  And  Perrin,  anxious  to  avoid 
such  a  shower  of  compliments,  spurred 
the  dun,  and  cantered  away. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  Mademoiselle  Laure  !  " 

"  Who  is  that  ?  " 

"  Me,  mademoiselle  1 " 

"  And  who  is  me  ?  " 

"  Jacintha.  Are  you  sleepy,  ma- 
demoiselle 1 " 

"  Ah,  yes  !  " 

"  Then  don't !  —  you  must  rise  di- 
rectlv." 

"  Must  I  ?  Why  1  Ah  !  the  cha- 
teau is  on  fire  !  " 

"No!  no! — great  news.  I  may 
be  mistaken,  but  I  don't  think  I  am, 

—  I  am  sure  not,  however." 

"  Ah  !  the  purse  !  —  the  purse  ! " 
"  No  other  thing.  Listen,  madem- 
oiselle. Dard  has  watched  a  cer- 
tain person  this  month  past,  by  my 
orders.  Well,  mademoiselle,  last  night 
he  got  his  pay,  —  four  hundred  francs, 

—  and  what  do  you  think,  he  told 
Dard  he  must  be  called  an  hour  be- 
fore daybreak.    Something  must  be  up, 

—  something  is  up  !  " 

"  That  thing  is  me ! "  cried  Laure. 
"  Behold,  7  am  up  !  You  good  girl, 
when  did  you  know  all  this  1  " 

"  Only  since  last  night." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  last 
night,  then  1 " 

"  I  had  more  sense.  You  would 
not  have  slept  a  wink.  I  have  n't. 
Mademoiselle,  there  is  no  time  to 
spare  ;  wh}-,  the  sun  will  be  up  in  a 
few  minutes.  How  quick  could  you 
dress  to  save  your  life  1  "  asked  Ja- 
cintha, a  little  fretfullv  ;  "in  half  an 
hour  ■?  " 

"  In  half  a  minute,"  cried  Laure  ; 
"fiy  and  get  Josephine  up  ;  there  will 
be  the  struggle  !  " 


56 


WHITE  LIES. 


Laure  dressed  herself  furiously,  and 
glided  to  Josephine's  room.  She 
found  her  languidly  arranging  herself 
in  the  usual  style. 

Laure  flew  at  her  like  a  tiger-cat, 
pinned  her  and  hooked  her,  and 
twisted  her  about  at  a  rare  rate. 

Josephine  smiled  and  yawned. 

While  the  sprightly  Hebe  was  thus 
expediting  the  languid  Venus,  a  bus- 
tle of  feel  was  heard  overhead,  and 
down  came  Jacintha  red  as  fire. 

"  O  mesdemoiselles  !  I  have  been 
on  the  leads.  There  is  somebody 
coming  from  the  village, — I  spied 
from  behind  the  chimney.  There  is 
not  a  moment  to  lose,  —  the  sun  is 
up,  too." 

"  But  I  am  not  dressed,  my  girl." 

"  Then  you  must  come  undressed," 
said  Jacintha,  brusquely. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  should  come  un- 
dressed," said  Josephine,  quietly. 
"  You  have  not  half  fastened  me. 
There,  don't  let  me  detain  you, — 
go  without  me." 

"  Hear  to  that !  "  remonstrated  Ja- 
cintha ;  "  and  it  is  for  her  tlie  man 
does  it  all." 

"  For  her  ?  " 

"  For  me  1  " 

"Yes!  mademoiselle,  for  you.  Is 
that  wonderful '?  You  look  at  your- 
bcif  in  the  glass,  and  that  will  explain 
all.  No,  don't,  or  we  shall  be  too  late. 
Now,  ladies,  come  to  your  hiding- 
place." 

"  What !  are  we  to  hide  1 " 

"  Why,  you  don't  think  he  will  do 
it,  if  he  sees  you,  mademoiselle.  Be- 
sides, how  are  you  to  catch  him  unless 
I  put  you  in  ambush  ?  " 

"  0  you  good  girl,"  cried  Laure. 
"  Here,  then,  is  one  that  originates 
ideas,  —  this  is  fun." 

"  I  would  rather  dispense  with  that 
part  of  her  idea,"  said  Josephine. 
"  What  can  I  say  to  one  I  do  not 
know,  even  if  I  catch  him,  — which  I 
hope  I  shall  not  ?  " 

"  O,  we  have  not  caught  him  yet," 
said  Jacintha ;  and,  if  you  do,  it 
won't  he  '  I,'  it  will  be  '  we.'  You 
will  be  as  bold  as  lions  when  you  find 


yourselves  two  to  one,  and  on  your 
own  ground.  One  and  one  make  fif- 
teen !  " 

"  One  and  one  make  fifteen "? 
Laure,  you  are  dressed,  demand  an 
explanation,  — and  lend  me  a  pin." 

"  I  mean  one  young  lady  alongside 
another  young  lady  has  the  courage 
of  fifteen  separate.  ' 

Jacintha  now  took  the  conduct  of 
the  expedition.  She  led  her  young 
mistresses  on  tiptoe  to  the  great  oak- 
tree.  In  with  you,  my  ladies,  and  as 
still  as  mice." 

They  cast  a  comic  look  at  one  an- 
other, and  obeyed  the  general. 

"Now,"  said  Jacintha,  "  if  it  is  all 
right,  I  sha'  n't  stir ;  if  it  is  all  wrong, 
I  shall  come  and  tell  you.  Mother  of 
Heaven,  there  is  your  blind  up,  —  if 
he  sees  that,  he  will  know  you  are  up. 
I  fly  to  draw  it  down,  — adieu,  mes- 
demoiselles." 

"  She  is  not  coming  back,  Jose- 
phine 1  " 

"  No,  my  sister." 

"  Then  my  heart  beats,  that  is  all. 
Also,  imagine  us  popping  out  oa  a 
stranger !  " 

"  Such  a  phrase  !  — my  sister  !  " 

"  It  popped  out,  my  sister  !  " 

"  Before  we  even  think  of  anything 
else,  be  so  kind  as  to  fasten  one  or 
two  of  these  hooks  properly ;  should 
we  really  decide  to  charge  the  foe,  it 
would  be  well  to  have  as  little  disorder 
in  our  own  lines  as  possible  "  ;  and  Jo- 
sephine's lip  made  a  little  curl  that 
was  inestimably  beautiful.  Laure 
obeyed.  During  the  process,  Jose- 
phine delivered  herself,  in  a  faint  sort 
of  way,  of  what  follows  :  — 

"  See,  nevertheless,  how  hard  it  is 
for  our  sex  to  resist  energy.  Jacin- 
tha is  our  servant ;  but  she  has  energy 
and  decision  ;  this  young  woman,  my 
supposed  inferior,  willed  that  I  should 
be  in  an  absurd  position  ;  what  is  the 
consequence  ?  A  minute  ago  I  was 
in  bed,  —  now  I  am  here,  —  and  the 
intervening  events  are  a  blank  "  (a 
little  yawn). 

"  Josephine,"  said  Laure,  gravely, 
"  such  small  talk  is  too  fearful  in  this 


WHITE  LIES. 


57 


moment  of  horrihle  agitation.  A 
sudden  thought !  How  come  you  to 
he  so  frightfully  calm  and  composed, 
you,  the  greater  poltroon  of  the  two 
by  ever  so  much  ?  " 

"By  a  hair's  breadth,  for  instance." 

"  I  see,  — you  have  decided  not  to 
move  from  this  ambush,  come  what 
may.  Double  coward  and  traitress, 
that  is  why  you  are  cool.  I  flutter 
because  at  bottom  I  am  brave,  because 
I  mean  to  descend  like  an  eagle  on 
him,  —  and  fall  dead  with  fright  at  his 
feet." 

"  Be  ti'anquil  —  nobody  is  coming 
—  l)e  reasonable.  What  ground  have 
we  for  supposing  any  one  will  come 
here  this  morning  f  " 

"  Josephine,"  cried  Laure,  eagerly, 
"  that  girl  knows  more  than  she  has 
told  us ;  she  is  in  earnest.  Depend 
upon  it,  as  she  says,  there  is  some- 
thing up.  Kiss  me,  dear,  that  will 
give  you  courage — oh!  how  my 
heart  beats,  and  remember  '  one  and 
one  make  —  how  many  f '  " 

"  How  many  figures  do  one  cipher 
added  to  anoth—  hush  !  hush  !  "  cried 
Josephine,  in  a  loud,  agitated  whisper, 
and  held  up  a  quivering  hand,  and 
her  glorious  bosom  began  to  heave ; 
she  pointed  several  times  in  rapid  suc- 
cession westward  through  the  tree. 
In  a  moment  Laure  had  her  eye  glued 
to  a  little  hole  in  the  tree.  Josephine 
had  instinctively  drawn  back  from  a 
much  larger  aperture,  through  which 
she  feared  she  could  be  seen. 

"  Yes,"  cried  Laure,  in  a  trembling 
whisper. 

A  figure  stood  in  the  park,  looking 
over  the  little  gate  into  the  Pleasance. 

Josephine  kept  away  from  the  larger 
aperture  through  which  she  had  caught 
a  glimpse  of  him.  Laure  kept  look- 
ing through  the  little  hole,  and  back 
at  Josephine,  alternately;  the  figure 
never  moved. 

The  suspense  lasted  several  minutes. 

Presently,  Laure   made   a  sudden 

movement,   and   withdrew   from    her 

peep-hole ;  and  at  the  same  moment 

Josephine   could  just  hear   the  gate 

open. 

o* 


The  girls  came  together  by  one  in- 
stinct in  the  centre  of  the  tree,  but  did 
not  dare  to  speak,  scarce  to  breathe. 
After  a  while,  Laure  ventured  cau- 
tiously to  her  peep-hole  again  ;  but 
she  recoiled  as  if  shot ;  he  was  walk- 
ing straight  for  the  oak-tree.  She 
made  a  terrified  signal  to  Josepliine 
accordingly.  He  passed  slowly  out 
of  sight,  and  the  next  time  she  peeped 
she  could  no  longer  tell  where  he  was. 
Then  the  cautious  Josephine  listened 
at  the  side  of  the  east  fissure,  and 
Laure  squinted  through  the  little  hole 
in  case  he  should  come  into  sight 
again.  While  thus  employed,  she 
felt  a  violent  pinch,  and  Josephine  had 
seized  her  by  the  shoulder  and  was 
dragging  her  into  one  corner  at  the 
side  of  the  east  fissure.  They  were 
in  the  very  act  of  crouching  and  flat- 
tening each  into  her  own  corner,  when 
a  man's  shadow  came  slap  into  the 
tree  between  them,  and  there  remained. 
Each  put  a  hand  quick  and  hard 
against  her  mouth,  or  each  would 
have  screamed  out  when  the  shadow 
joined  them,  forerunner,  no  doubt,  of 
the  man  himself. 

They  glared  down  at  it,  and 
crouched  and  trembled,  —  they  had 
not  bargained  for  this ;  they  had 
hidden  to  catch,  not  to  be  caught. 
At  last  they  recovered  sufficient  com- 
posure to  observe  that  this  shadow, 
one  half  of  which  lay  on  the  ground, 
while  the  head  and  shoulders  went 
a  little  way  up  the  wall  of  the  tree, 
represented  a  man's  profile,  not  his 
front  face.  The  figure,  in  short,  was 
standing  between  them  and  the  sun, 
and  was  contemplating  the  chateau, 
not  the  tree. 

Still,  when  the  shadow  took  off  its 
hat  to  Josephine,  she  would  have 
screamed  if  she  had  not  bitten  her 
plump  hand  instead. 

It  wiped  its  brow  with  a  handker- 
chief; it  had  walked  fast,  poor  thing! 
The  next  moment  it  was  away. 

Sic  transit  gloria  mundi. 

They  looked  at  one  another  and 
panted.  Tliey  dared  not  l:)efore.  Then 
Laure,  with  one  hand  on  lier  heaving 


58 


WHITE  LIES. 


bosom,  shook  her  little  white  fist  vi- 
ciously at  where  the  figure  must  be, 
and  perhaps  a  comical  desire  of  ven- 
geance stimulated  her  curiosity.  She 
now  glided  through  the  fissure  like  a 
cautious  pantlier  from  her  den  ;  and 
noiseless  and  supple  as  a  serpent  began 
to  wind  slowly  round  the  tree.  She 
soon  came  to  a  great  protuberance. 
Her  bright  eye  peeped  round  it ;  her 
lithe  body  worked  into  the  hollow, 
and  was  invisible  to  him  she  was 
watcliing.  Josephine,  a  j-ard  behind 
her,  clung  also  to  the  oak,  and  waited 
with  glowing  eye  and  cheek  for  sig- 
nals. 

The  cautious  visitor  had  surveyed 
the  ground,  had  strolled  with  mock 
carelessness  round  the  oak,  and  was 
now  safe  at  his  goal.  He  was  seen  to 
put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  to  draw 
sometiiing  out  and  drop  it  under  the 
lemon-tree ;  this  done,  he  was  heard 
to  vent  a  little  innocent  chuckle  of  in- 
tense satisfaction  but  of  brief  dura- 
tion. For,  the  very  moment  she  saw 
the  purse  leave  his  hand,  Laure  made 
a  rapid  signal  to  Josephine  to  wheel 
round  the  other  side  of  the  tree,  and, 
starting  together,  with  admirable  con- 
cert, both  the  daughters  of  Beaure- 
paire  swooped  on  him  from  opposite 
sides. 

His  senses  were  too  quick,  and  too 
much  on  the  alert,  not  to  liear  the 
rustle  the  moment  they  started ;  but 
it  was  too  late  then.  They  did  not 
walk  up  to  him,  or  even  run.  They 
came  so  fast  they  must,  I  think,  have 
fancied  they  were  running  away  in- 
stead of  charging. 

He  knew  nothing  about  their  past 
tremors.  All  he  saw  or  heard  was  — 
a  rustle,  then  a  flap  on  each  side,  as 
of  great  wings,  and  two  lovely  women 
were  upon  iiim  witli  angelic  swiftness. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  cried  out,  with  a  start 
of  terror,  and  glanced  f^rom  the  first 
comer,  Laure,  to  tlic  park.  His  in- 
stinctive idea  was  to  run  that  way. 
But  Josephine  was  on  that  side,  caught 
the  look,  and  put  up  her  hand,  as 
much  as  to  sav,  "  You  can't  pass 
here. " 


In  such  situations,  the  mind  works 
quicker  than  lightning.  He  took  off 
his  hat,  and  stammered  an  excuse : 
"  Come  to  look  at  the  oak."  But 
Laure  pounced  on  the  purse,  and  held 
it  up  to  Josephine. 

He  was  caught.  His  only  chance 
now  was  to  bolt  for  the  great  gate  and 
run,  —  but  it  was  not  the  notary,  —  it 
was  a  poor  little  fellow  who  lost  his 
presence  of  mind,  or  perhaps  thought 
it  rude  to  run  when  a  lady  told  him  to 
stand  still.  Ail  he  did  was  to  crush 
his  face  into  his  two  hands,  round 
which  his  cheeks  and  neck  now 
blushed  red  as  blood.  Blush  ?  the 
young  women  could  see  the  color  rusli 
like  a  wave  to  the  very  roots  of  his 
hair  and  the  tij^s  of  his  fingers. 


CHAPTER   VIIL 

The  moment  our  heroines,  who,  in 
that  desperation  which  is  one  of  the 
occasional  forms  of  cowardice,  had 
hurled  themselves  on  the  foe,  saw  they 
had  caught  a  Chinese  and  not  a  Tar- 
tar, flash  —  the  quick  -  witted  pol- 
troons exchanged  a  streak  of  purple 
lightning  over  the  abashed  and  droop- 
ing head,  and  were  two  lionesses  of 
valor  and  dignity  in  less  than  half  a 
moment. 

It  was  with  the  quiet  composure  of 
lofty  and  powerful  natures  that  Jo- 
sephine opened  on  him. 

He  gave  a  little  wince  when  the 
first  rich  tone  struck  his  ear. 

"  Compose  yourself,  monsieur;  and 
be  so  good  as  to  tell  us  who  you  are.  " 

Edouard  must  answer.  Now  he 
could  not  speak  througli  his  hands ; 
and  he  could  not  face  a  brace  of  lion- 
esses ;  so  he  took  a  middle  course, 
removed  one  hand,  and,  shading  him- 
self from  Josephine  witli  the  other,  he 
gasped  out  — 

"  I  am  — my  name  is  Riviere  ;  and 
I  — I  — O  ladies!" 

"  Don't  be  frightened,"  said  Laure, 
with  an  air  of  imperial  clemency,  "  we 
are  not  very  angry." 


WHITE  LIES. 


59 


*'  Ah  !  thank  you,  mademoiselle." 

"So,"  resuinedJosephine,  "tell  vis 
what  interest  have  you  in  the  fortunes 
of  the  Baroness  de  Beaurepaire  ?  " 

"  I  am  so  confused,  or  I  could  per- 
haps answer.  Mademoiselle,  forgive 
me ;  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  I  seem 
not  to  have  an  idea  left.  Suffer  me 
then,  with  the  greatest  respect,  to  take 
my  leave."      And  he  was  for  bolting. 

"  Not  yet,  monsieur,"  said  Jose- 
phine.    "  Laure !  " 

Laure  went  off",  looking  hehind  her 
every  now  and  then. 

After  a  long  silence,  Edouard  mut- 
tered :  — 

"  Do  you  forgive  me,  mademoi- 
selle 1 " 

"  Yes."  Josephine  colored  and  was 
not  quite  so  stately.  She  added : 
"  We  should  indeed  be  harsh  judges, 
monsieur,  if  wo  —  Ah !  here  is  Laure 
with  tlie  other.  Take  these  twenty 
louis  which  you  have  been  so  kind  as 
to  leave  here."  And  her  creamy  hand 
held  him  out  the  two  purses. 

The  boy  started  back  and  put  up 
both  his  hands  in  a  supplicatory  atti- 
tude. 

"  0  no  !  ladies  — do  not  —  pray  do 
not !  Let  me  speak  to  j-ou.  My 
ideas  are  coming  back.  I  think  I  can 
say  a  word  or  two  now,  though  not  as 
I  could  wish.  Do  not  reject  my 
friendship.  You  are  alone  in  the 
world  ;  your  father  is  dead  ;  your 
mother  has  but  you  to  lean  on.  After 
all,  I  am  your  neighbor,  and  neighbors 
should  be  friends.  And  I  am  your 
debtor ;  I  owe  you  more  than  you 
could  ever  owe  me  ;  for  ever  since  I 
came  into  this  neighborhood  I  have 
been  happy.  0,  no  man  was  ever 
so  happy  as  I,  ever  since  one  day  I 
met  you  out  walking.  A  single  glance, 
a  single  smile  from  an  angel  has  done 
this  for  me.  I  owe  all  my  good 
thouglits,  if  I  have  any,  to  her.  Be- 
fore I  saw  her,  I  vegetated,  —  now  I 
live.  And  you  talk  of  twenty  louis,  — 
well  then  yes!  I  will  obey  you,  —  I 
will  take  them  back.  So  then  you 
will  perhaps  be  generous  in  your  turn. 
Since  you  mortify  me  in  this,  you  will 


grant  what  you  can  grant  without 
hurting  your  pride ;  you  will  accept 
my  service,  my  devotion.  You  have 
no  brother,  —  I  have  no  sister.  Let 
me  be  your  brother,  and  your  servant 
forever." 

"  Monsieur  Tliviere,"  said  Jose- 
phine, with  her  delicate  curl  of  her  lip, 
"  you  offer  us  too  much,  and  we  have 
too  little  to  give  you  in  return.  Ours 
is  a  falling  house,  and  —  " 

"  No  !  no  !  mademoiselle,  you  mis- 
take, —  you  are  imposed  upon.  Y'ou 
fancy  you  are  poor, —  others  that  do 
not  care  for  you  say  so  too  ;  but  I, 
who  owe  you  so  much,  I  have  looked 
closer  into  your  interests, — jour  estate 
is  grossly  mismanaged ;  forgive  me 
for  saying  so.  You  are  rich  at  this 
moment  if  you  had  but  a  friend,  —  a 
man  of  business.  You  are  cheated 
through  thick  and  thin,  —  it  is  abomi- 
nable, —  and  no  wonder ;  you  are  wo- 
men and  don't  understand  business, 
—  you  are  aristocrats  and  scorn  it." 

"  He  is  no  fool,"  said  Laure,  naive- 

"  And  you  banish  me  who  could 
be  of  such  service  to  you  and  to  ma- 
dame  the  baroness.  Yet  you  say 
you  forgive  my  ofilciousness,  but  I 
fear  you  do  not.  Ah  !  no,  this  vile 
money  has  ruined  me  with  you." 

"No!  monsieur,  no!  —  you  have 
earned  and  well  merited  our  esteem." 

"  But  not  your  acquaintance  t  " 

The  ladies  both  looked  down  a  lit- 
tle ashamed. 

"  See  now,"  said  the  boy,  bitterly, 
"  how  reasonable  etiquette  is.  If  I 
had  happened  to  dine  at  some  house 
where  you  dined,  and  some  person 
whom  neither  of  us  respected  had 
said  to  you,  '  Suffer  me  to  present 
Monsieur  P^douard  Riviere  to  jou,' 
I  should  have  the  honor  and  blessing 
of  your  acquaintance,  —  that  would 
have  been  an  introduction,  —  but  all 
this  is  none,  and  you  will  never,  nev- 
er speak  to  me  again." 

"  He  is  anything  but  a  fool !  "  said 
Laure. 

A  look  of  ardent  gratitude  from 
Edouard. 


60 


WHITE   LIES. 


"  He  is  very  young,"  said  Jose- 
phine, "  and  thinks  to  give  society 
new  rules  ;  society  is  too  strong  to 
be  dictated  to  by  him  or  you  ;  let  us 
be  serious ;  apjjroach,  Monsieur  Ed- 
ouard." 

Edouard  came  a  little  nearer,  and 
fixed  two  beseeching  eyes  on  her  a 
moment,  then  lowered  them. 

"  Ere  we  part,  and  part  we  must, 
—  for  your  path  lies  one  way,  ours 
another,  —  hear  me,  who  speak  in  the 
name  of  all  this  ancient  house.  Your 
name  is  not  quite  new  to  me,  —  I  be- 
lieve you  are  a  Repubhcan  officer, 
monsieur  ;  but  you  have  acted  en  gen- 
tilhomme." 

"  Mademoiselle  —  " 
"  May  your  career  be  brilliant, 
Monsieur  Edouard  !  may  those  you 
have  been  taught  to  serve,  and  whom 
you  greatly  honor  by  serving,  be  more 
grateful  to  you  than  cii'cumstances 
permit  this  family  to  be ;  we,  who 
were  beginning  to  despair  of  human 
goodness,  thank  you,  monsieur,  for 
showing  us  the  world  is  still  embel- 
lished with  hearts  like  3'ours  !  "  And 
she  suddenly  held  him  out  her  hand 
like  a  pitying  goddess,  her  purple  eye 
dwelling  on  him  with  all  the  heaven 
of  sentiment  in  it. 

He  bowed  his  head  over  her  hand, 
and  kissed  it  again  and  again. 

"  You  will  make  him  cry,  that  will 
be  the  next  thing,"  said  Laure,  with  a 
little  gulp. 

"No!  no!"  said  Josephine,  "he 
is  too  much  of  a  man  to  cry." 

"  0  no,  mademoiselle,  I  will  not 
expose  myself" 

"  And  see,"  said  Josephine,  in  a 
motherly  tone,  "  though  we  return 
your  poor  gold,  we  keep  both  purses  ; 
Laure  takes  this  one,  my  mother  and 
I  this  one  ;  they  will  be  our  souvenirs 
of  one  who  wished  to  oblige  without 
humiliating  us." 

"  And  I  think,"  said  Laure,  "  as 
his  gold  is  so  fugitive,  I  had  better 
imprison  it  in  this  purse,  which  I  have 
just  m;ule,  —  there,  —  it  would  be  un- 
courteous  to  return  him  his  money 
loose,  you  know  !  "  , 


"  Ah  !  mademoiselle,  what  good- 
ness !  O,  be  assured  it  shall  be  put 
to  no  such  base  use  as  carrying  mon- 
ey." 

"  Adieu,  then,  Monsieur  Riviere  !  " 

The  two  sisters  were  now  togeth. 
er,  their  arms  round  one  another. 

"  Mademoiselle  Laure,  Mademoi- 
selle Josephine,  conceive  if  you  can 
my  happiness,  and  my  disappoint- 
ment, —  adieu  !  —  adieu  !  —  adieu  !  " 

He  was  gone  as  slowly  and  unwill- 
ingly as  it  is  possible  to  go. 

"  Inaccessible !  "  said  he  to  him- 
self, sadly,  as  he  went  slowly  home; 
"quite  inaccessible!  Yet  there  was 
a  moment  after  the  first  surprise 
when  I  thought  —  but  no.  All  the 
shame  of  such  a  surprise,  and  yet  I 
am  no  nearer  them  than  before.  I 
am  very  unhappy !  No !  I  am  not. 
I  am  the  happiest  man  in  France." 

Then  he  acted  the  scene  all  over 
again,  only  more  adroitly,  and 
blushed  again  at  his  want  of  presence 
of  mind,  and  concocted  speeches 
for  past  use,  and  was  hot  and  cold  by 
turns. 

"  Poor  boy,"  said  Josephine,  "  he 
is  gone  away  sad,  and  that  has  sad- 
dened me.  But  I  did  my  duty,  and 
he  will  yet  live  to  thank  me  for  freez- 
ing at  once  an  attachment  I  could 
never  have  requited." 

"  Have  you  finished  your  observa- 
tions, love  1 "  asked  Laure,  dryly. 

"  Yes,  Laure." 

"  Then  — to  business." 

"  To  business  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  —  no  !  don't  go  in  yet.  A 
little  arrangement  between  us  two 
arises  necessarily  out  of  this  affair,  — 
that  is  how  the  notary  talks,  —  and  it 
is  as  well  to  settle  it  at  once,  say  I ; 
because,  love,  in  a  day  or  two,  you 
know,  it  might  be  too  late  —  ahem  !  " 

"  But  settle  what  1 " 

"  Which  of  us  two  takes  him,  dear, 
—  that  is  all." 

"  Takes  whom  ?  " 

"  Edouard  !  "  explained  Laure,  de- 
murely, lowering  her  eyes. 

Josephine  glared  with  wonder  and 
comical  horror  upon  the  lovely  minx. 


WHITE  LIES. 


Gl 


And  after  a  long  look  too  big  for 
words,  slie  said  •  — 

"  Next  did  I  not  understand  Ja- 
cintha  to  say  that  it  was  me  the  poor 
child  dreams  of  ?  " 

"  0,  you  shall  have  him,  my  sis- 
ter," put  in  the  sly  minx,  warmly, 
"  if  you  insist  on  it." 

"  What  words  are  these  1  I  shall 
be  angry  at  the  end." 

"  Ah,  I  must  not  annoy  you  by 
too  great  importunity,  neither.  You 
have  only  to  say  you  decline  him." 

"  Decline  him  ?  poor  boy  !  He  has 
never  asked  me." 

"  In  short,  o;i  one  pretence  or  anoth- 
er, you  decline  to  decline  him." 

"  How  dare  you,  Laure  ?  Of 
course  I  decline  him." 

"  Thank  you,  my  sister,"  cried 
Laure,  hastily,  and  kissed  her ;  "  it  is 
the  prettiest  present  you  ever  gave 
me,  —  except  your  love.  Ah !  what 
is  that  on  your  hand  ?  It  is  wet,  — 
it  looks  like  the  dew  on  a  lily.  It  is 
a  tear  from  his  eye,  —  you  cruel  wo- 
man." 

"  No !  it  was  when  I  spoke  kindly 
to  him.  I  remember  now,  I  did  feel 
something  !     Poor  child !  " 

"  Heart  of  marble !  that  affects 
pity,  —  an  hour  after.  Stay  !  since 
our  agreement,  this  belongs  to  me  "  : 
and  she  drew  out  a  back  comb,  and 
down  fell  a  mass  of  rich  brown  hair. 
She  swept  the  dew  off  the  lily  with  it, 
and  did  it  up  again  with  a  turn  of 
the  hand.     Josephine  sighed  deeply. 

"  My  sister,  you  frighten  me.  Do 
not  run  thus  wantonly  to  the  edge 
of  a  precipice.  Take  warning  by 
me.  O,  why  did  we  come  out  ?  Ja- 
cintha,  what  have  you  done  !  !  " 

"  This  dear  Josephine,  with  her 
misgivings  !  confess,  you  take  me  for 
a  fool." 

"  I  take  you  for  a  child  that  will 
play  with  fire  if  not  prevented." 

"  At  nineteen  and  a  half  one  is  no 
longer  a  child.  0  the  blindness  of 
our  elders !  I  know  you  by  heart, 
Josephine,  but  you  only  know  a  lit- 
tle bit  of  me.  You  have  only  ob- 
served the  side  I  turn  to  you,  whom 


I  love  better  than  I  shall  love  any 
man.  Keep  your  pity  for  Monsieur 
Riviere  if  ever  he  does  fall  into  my 
hands,  not  for  me.  In  a  word,  Jo- 
sephine, the  hour  is  come  for  making 
you  a  revelation.  I  am  not  a  child. 
1  am  a  woman  !  " 

"  Ah  !  all  the  worse." 

"  But  not  the  sort  of  woman  you 
are,  —  and  Heaven  be  thanked  for 
both  our  sakes  I  am  not !  " 

Josephine  opened  her  eyes.  "  She 
never  talked  like  this  to  me  before,  — 
this  is  your  doing,  Monsieur  Riviere. 
Unhappy  girl,  wiiat  are  you,  then  1  — 
not  like  me,  wlio  love  you  so  ! ! ! !  !  " 

"  No,  my  sister,  I  have  the  honor  to 
be  your  opposite." 

"  My  opposite !  "  cried  Josephine, 
very  ruefully. 

"  I  am  a  devil ! ! "  exclaimed 
Laure,  in  a  mysterious  whisper,  but 
with  perfect  gravity  and  conviction, 
aiming  at  Josephine  with  her  forefin- 
ger, to  point  the  remark.  She  allowed 
just  one  second  for  this  important 
statement  to  sink  into  her  sister's 
mind,  then  straightway  set  to  and 
gambolled  in  a  most  elfish  way  round 
and  round  her  as  Josephine  moved 
stately  and  thoughtful  across  the  grass 
to  the  chateau. 

It  may  well  be  supposed  what  was 
the  subject  of  conversation  at  break- 
flvst,  and  indeed  all  the  day.  The 
young  ladies,  however,  drew  only  the 
broader  outlines  of  their  story ;  with 
a  natural  reserve,  they  gave  no  direct 
hint  that  they  thought  Monsieur  Riv- 
iere was  in  love  with  one  of  them. 
They  left  their  hearers  to  see  that  or 
not,  as  might  be. 

The  baroness,  on  her  part,  was  not 
disposed  to  put  love  ideas  into  her 
daughters'  heads ;  she  therefore, 
though  too  shrewd  not  to  suspect 
Dan  Cupid's  hand  in  this,  reserved 
her  suspicions,  and  spoke  of  Riviere's 
act  as  any  one  might,  looking  only  at 
its  delicate,  generous,  and  disinter- 
ested side. 

Male  sagacity,  in  the  person  of  St. 
Aubin,  prided  itself  on  its  superior 
shrewdness,  held  the  same  language 


62 


WHITE  LIES. 


as  the  others,  but  smiled  secretly  all 
the  time  at  female  credulity. 

Scarce  three  days  had  elapsed,  three 
weary  days  to  a  friend  of  ours,  when 
Jacintha,  looking  through  the  kitchen 
window,  saw  the  signal  of  distress 
flying  from  a  tree  in  tlie  park.  She 
slipped  out,  and  there  was  Edouard 
Riviere.  Her  tongue  went  off  with  a 
clash  at  the  moment  of  contact  with 
him,  like  a  cymbal.  First,  she  ex- 
ulted over  him :  "  How  had  it  an- 
swered trying  to  draw  the  wool  over 
Jacintha's  cj'es,  eh?"  then  she  re- 
lated her  own  sagacity,  telling  him, 
as  such  characters  are  apt  to,  half  the 
,  story.  She  suppressed  Dard's  share, 
for  she  might  want  a  similar  service 
from  Dard  again,  —  who  knows? 
But  she  let  him  know  it  was  she  who 
had  set  the  ladies  in  ambush  at  that 
time  in  the  morning. 

At  this  young  Riviere  raised  his 
hands,  and  eyed  her  as  a  moral  alli- 
gator. She  faced  the  examination 
with  sold  composure,  lips  parted  in  a 
brazen  smile,  and  arms  akimbo. 

"  O  Jacintha,  you  can  stand  there 
and  tell  me  this ;  what  malice !  all 
because  out  of  delicacy,  misplaced 
perhaps,  I  did  not  like  to  tell  you." 

"  So  then  you  don't  see  I  have 
been  your  best  friend,  ungratefully  as 
you  used  me  1  " 

"  No,  Jacintha,  indeed  I  cannot  see 
that,  —  you  have  ruined  me.  Judge 
for  yourself." 

Then  he  told  her  all  that  had  hap- 
pened in  the  Pleasance.  Very  little 
of  it  was  news  to  her.  Still  it  inter- 
ested and  excited  her  to  hear  it  all 
told  in  a  piece,  and  from  his  point  of 
view. 

"  So  you  see,  my  poor  Jacintha,  you 
have  got  me  dismissed,  kindly,  but 
oh  !  so  coldly  and  (irmly,  —  all  hope  is 
now  dead —  alas  !  " 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!" 

"  Jacintha,  do  you  laugh  at  the  ex- 
tinction of  my  hopes  ?  " 

"  Ha !  ha !  so  she  has  given  you 
conr/c'/ " 

•'  Yes,  and  all  that  remains  for 
me  —  " 


"Is  not  to  take  it,"  said  Jacin- 
tha. 

"  O  no  !  "  said  Riviere,  sadly,  but 
firmly  ;  "debarred  her  love,  let  me  at 
least  have  her  respect." 

"  Her  respect  ?  how  can  she  respect 
a  man  who  turns  tail  at  the  first 
word  1 " 

"  But  that  word  is  hers,  whose  light- 
est word  a  true  and  loyal  lover  is 
l)ound  to  obey  to  his  own  cost. 
Am  I  not  to  take  a  lady  at  her 
word  ? " 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  little  sot, — no.  I  must 
run  and  make  the  coffee." 

"Malediction  on  the  coffee!  how 
can  you  have  the  heart  to  think  of 
coffee  now,  dear  Jacintha  ?  Do,  pray, 
explain." 

"  What  is  the  use,  if  you  will  go 
and  dream  that  a  lady  is  a  man  1 " 

"  No,  no  !  I  won't  fancy  anything  ; 
tell  me  about  women,  then,  if  you 
think  you  can  understand  them." 

"  I  will  then.  Above  all  mortal 
things  they  despise  faint-hearted  men. 
They  are  on  ths  lookout  for  some- 
thing stronger  than  a  woman.  A  wo- 
man hates  to  have  to  make  the  ad- 
vances. She  likes  to  be  always  re- 
treating, yet  never  be  off.  She  is  not 
content  to  take  what  she  wants,  and 
thank  God  for  it,  and  that  is  a  man. 
She  must  play  with  it  like  a  cat  with 
a  mouse.  She  must  make  difficulties. 
The  man  he  is  to  trample  on  them. 
She  made  them  to  no  other  end.  If  he 
is  such  a  fool  as  to  let  them  trample 
on  him.  Heaven  have  mercy  on  him, 
for  she  won't !  Her  two  delights  are, 
saying  '  no  '  half  a  dozen  times,  and 
saying  '  yes  '  at  last.  If  you  take  her 
at  her  word  at  the  first  '  no,'  you 
cause  her  six  bitter  disappointments; 
for  then  she  can't  get  to  say  the  other 
'  no's,'  and,  worst  of  all,  she  can't  get 
to  say  the  '  yes  '  that  she  was  looking 
forward  to,  and  that  was  in  her  heart 
all  along.  Now,  my  young  mistress 
is  half  angel  and  half  woman,  so,  if 
you  give  iier  up  because  she  bids  you, 
she  will  only  despise  you  ;  but  if  it 
was  my  otlier  young  lady  or  me,  we 
should  hate  you  as  well." 


WHITE  LIES. 


63 


"  Hate  me  ?  for  self-denial  and 
obedience  1 " 

"  No  !  Hate  you  for  being  a  fool ! 
Hate  you  witli  a  bitterness  —  there, 
hate  you  as  you  could  not  hate  any- 
thing." 

"  I  can't  believe  it !  What  horrible 
injustice ! " 

"Justice  !  who  looks  to  us  for  jus- 
tice ■?  We  are  good  creatures,  but  we 
don't  trouble  our  heads  with  justice; 
it  is  a  word  you  shall  never  hear  a 
woman  use,  unless  s!ie  happens  to  be 
doing  some  monstrous  injustice  at 
that  very  moment ;  that  is  our  rule 
about  justice  —  so,  there." 

"  Jacintha,  your  views  of  your  sex 
are  hard  and  cynical.  Women  are 
nobler  and  better  than  men  !  " 

"  Ay  !  ay  !  you  see  them  a  mile  off. 
I  see  them  too  near  :  they  can't  pass 
for  rainbows  here." 

"  Pass  for  rainbows  —  he  !  he  ! 
Speak  for  yourself,  Jacintha,  and  for 
coquettes,  and  for  vulgar  women  ;  but 
do  not  blaspheme  those  angelic  na- 
tures with  wliich  I  was  for  one  short 
moment  in  contact." 

"  Ah  bah !  we  are  all  tarred  with 
the  same  stick,  angels  and  all, —  the 
angels  that  wear  stays." 

"  I  cannot  think  so.  Besides,  you 
were  not  there  ;  you  did  not  hear  how 
kindly  yet  how  firmly  she  thanked, 
yet  bade  me  adieu." 

"  I  tell  you,  a  word  in  a  man's 
mouth  is  a  "thing,  but  in  a  woman's  it 
is  only  a  word."  At  this  point,  with- 
out any  previous  warning,  she  went 
into  a  passion  like  gunpowder  kia- 
dled.  "  Take  your  own  way  !  "  she 
cried ;  "  this  boy  knows  more  than  I 
do.  So  be  it,  —  let  us  speak  no  more 
of  it." 

"  Cruel  Jacintha,  to  quarrel  with 
me,  who  have  no  other  friend.  There 
—  I  am  your  pupil;  for,  after  all, 
your  sagacity  is  great.  Advise  me  like 
a  sister —  I  listen." 

"Like  a  sister!  Ah,  my  child,  do 
not  say  that." 

"  Why  not  ?     Yes,  do." 

"  No ;  good  advice  is  never  wel- 
come." 


"  It  is  so  seldom  given  kindly." 

"  O,  as  to  that,  I  could  not  speak 
unkindly  to  you,  my  little  cabbage ; 
but  I  shall  make  you  unhappy,  and 
then  I  shall  be  unhappy ;  for  you  see, 
with  all  our  faults,  we  have  not  bad 
hearts." 

"  Speak,  Jacintha." 

"  I  am  going  to  ;  and  when  I  have 
spoken,  I  shall  never  see  your  pretty 
face  again  so  near  to  mine,  —  so  you 
see  I  am  disinterested  ;  and  —  O 
how  I  hate  telling  the  truth ! "  cried 
she,  with  pious  fervor ;  "  it  always 
makes  everybody  miserable." 

"  Jacintha,  remember  what  you  said 
in  its  favor  the  first  time  we  met." 

"  I  cannot  remember  for  my  part, 
and  what  signifies  what  I  said  ? 
Words  —  air  !  Well,  my  poor  child, 
I  will  advise  you  like  a  mother,  — give 
her  up." 

"  Give  her  up  1  " 

"  Think  no  more  of  her :  for  there 
is  a  thing  in  your  way  that  is  as  hard 
to  get  over  as  all  her  nonsensical 
words  would  be  easy." 

"  O,  what  is  it?  You  make  me 
tremble." 

"  It  is  a  man." 

"  Ah ! " 

"  There  is  another  man  in  the  wav." 

"  Who  ?  —  that  vile  old  doctor  ?'" 

"  0,  if  it  was  no  worse  than  that ! 
No  !  it  is  a  young  one.  O,  you 
don't  know  him,  —  he  has  not  been 
here  for  years  ;  but  what  of  that,  if 
his  image  lies  in  her  heart  1  And  it 
does.  I  listened  the  other  day,  and 
I  heard  something  that  opened  my 
eyes.  I  am  cruel  to  you,  my  son,  — 
forgive  me  ! " 

Jacintha  scarcely  dared  look  at 
her  feeble-minded  novice.  She  did 
not  like  to  see  her  blow  fall  and  him 
stagger  and  turn  pale  under  it.  When 
she  did  look,  lo  and  behold  !  he  was 
red  instead  of  pale. 

"  What  is  he  ?  "  was  the  question, 
in  a  stern  voice. 

"  He  is  a  soldier." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that  :  tlien  he  will 
fight,  and  1  '11  kill  him." 

"  Hear  to  that  now  !  " 


64 


WHITE  LIES. 


"  And  you  think  I  will  give  in 
now  !  resign  her  to  an  unworthy  ri- 
val 1 " 

"  Who  said  he  was  unworthy  ?  " 

"  I  say  so." 

"  What  makes  you  fancy  that  ?  " 

"  Because  he  never  comes  near  the 
place,  because  he  neglects  what  none 
but  a  villain  could  neglect,  the  great- 
est treasure  in  the  world.  ^lO !  he 
deserves  to  lose  it, — and  he  shall 
lose  it.  Thank  you,  Jacintha  !  you 
show  me  my  folly.  I  will  not  take  her 
concje  now,  rely  on  it.  No  !  no  !  if  she 
bade  me  do  anything  in  the  world  to 
please  her,  and  her  alone,  I  would  do 
it,  though  I  had  to  go  through  fire 
and  water  and  blood,  and  break  my 
heart  doing  it.  But  if  she  asks  me 
to  make  way  for  a  rival,  I  answer,  — 
never  !  —  never  !  —  never !  " 

"  But  if  she  loves  him  ?  " 

"  A  passing  fancy,  and  the  object 
of  it  unworthy :  it  is  my  duty  to  cure 
her  of  a  misplaced  attachment  that 
can  never  make  her  happy,  sweet 
angel !  she  will  live  to  thank  me,  — 
to  bless  me !  —  I  say,  whose  side  are 
you  on,  —  his  or  mine  ?  " 

"  Wretch,  do  you  ask  me  ?  " 

"  Do  they  walk  in  the  park  ?  " 

"  Half  an  hour  every  day." 

"  What  time  ?  " 

"  Uncertain." 

"  And  I  can't  see  into  the  park  for 
that  great  infernal  elm-tree  at  the  cor- 
ner ;  it  just  blocks  up  my  window,  — 
if  I  cut  it  down  some  night,  will  you 
tell  ?  " 

"  Not  I.  Would  you  really  have 
the  forehead  to  cut  down  one  of  the 
Beaurepaire  elms  ?  —  holy  saints  !  " 

"  Look  for  it  to-morrow,"  said  he, 
grimly,  "  and  look  low  enough  or 
you  won't  see  it.  I  '11  cut  one  of 
your  elms  down  with  as  little  remorse 
as  I  would  half  a  dozen  rivals." 

"  He  is  mad,  — after  all  I  want  fire- 
wood, and  above  all  I  want  brush- 
wood for  my  oven  :  for  you  arc  to 
understand,  my  friend,  there  is  some 
meal  come  in  from  the  tenants,  and 
so  —  " 

"  That 's     right !     think    kitchen  ! 


talk  kitchen  !  pray  does  your  soul  live 
in  a  kitchen  as  well  as  your  body  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  !  " 

"  Forgive  me,  my  blood  is  on  fire, 
I  take  your  advice ;  you  shall  never 
have  to  spur  me  again.  It  is  clear 
you  know  the  sex  best :  she  shall 
make  as  many  difficulties  as  she 
pleases.  She  shall  say  "  no  "  twelve 
times  instead  of  six  if  it  amuses  her  : 
I  will  court  her,  I  will  besiege  her, 
I  '11  fight  for  her  against  all  the  sol- 
diers oir  earth,  and  all  the  fiends  in 
you  know  where."  Whir,  —  he  was 
away. 

Jacintha  gazed  after  her  pupil  and 
firework  with  ardent  admiration  so 
long  as  his  graceful,  active  figure  was 
in  sight. 

Then  she  fell  into  a  revery,  —  an 
unusual  mood  with  this  active  per- 
sonage. 

It  is  not  customary,  in  polite  fic- 
tion, to  go  into  the  reflecting  part  of 
a  servant-maid  :  let  us  therefore  make 
a  point  of  doing  it,  for  to  be  vulgar 
in  the  eyes  of  snobs  and  snobbesses  is 
no  mean  distinction. 

"  Look  there  now  !  —  Humph  — 
they  say  you  should  give  and  take. 
Well,  I  gave  a  lesson  :  and  now  I 
have  taken  one. 

"  From  fourteen  to  fourscore  a  man 
is  a  man,  and  a  woman  is  a  woman. 
Write  that  in  your  mass  books,  for  it 
is  as  true  as  gospel.  Ah  well !  school 
is  never  over  while  wc  are  in  the 
world.  I  thought  I  knew  something 
too  :  but  I  was  all  behind.  Now  to 
me  a  woman  is  the  shallowest  thing 
the  good  God  ever  made.  I  can 
plumb  it  with  my  forefinger.  But 
to  a  man  they  are  as  deep  as  the 
ocean.  And,  no  doubt,  men  can  read 
one  another :  but  they  beat  me.  She 
put  up  a  straw  between  him  and  her, 
and  he  fell  back  as  if  it  was  Goliah's 
spear,  that  was  as  thick  as  —  what  was 
it  as  thick  as  ?  I  showed  him  an  iron 
door  between  them,  and  he  flies  at  it 
as  if  it  was  a  sheet  of  brown  paper. 
Mother  of  Heaven  !  my  pot  !  my 

POT  !  " 

She  fled  wildly. 


WHITE  LIES. 


65 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  Oh  !  madame  the  baioncss,  there 
is  a  tree  blown  down  in  the  park." 

"  Impossible,  child  !  there  was  no 
wind  at  all  last  night." 

"  No,  madame,  but  there  was  a  night 
or  two  ago." 

Laure  giggled. 

"  Well,  mademoiselle,  that  might 
loosen  it ! " 

Laure  laughed  ;  but  the  baroness 
was  grave. 

"  Let  us  all  go  and  look  at  it,"  said 
she,  sadly  :  a  tree  was  an  old  friend  to 
her.  ' 

There  lay  the  monster  on  the  earth 
that  was  ploughed  and  harrowed  by 
its  hundred  arms  and  thousand  fin- 
gers ;  its  giant  proportions  now  first 
revealed  by  the  space  of  earth  it  cov- 
ered, and  the  frightful  gap  its  fall  left 
in  the  air  and  the  prospect.  The  doc- 
tor inspected  the  tree  in  detail,  and 
especially  the  stump,  and  said, 
"  Humph ! " 

The  baroness  looked  only  at  the 
mass  and  the  ruin. 

"  An  ill  omen,  my  children,"  said 
she.  "  It  stood  out  the  storm  ;  and 
then  one  calm  night  it  fell.  And  so 
it  will  be  with  the  house  of  Beaure- 
paire." 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  Jacintha,  in  a  com- 
fortable tone,  "  now  you  are  down,  we 
must  do  the  best  we  can  with  you.  I 
wanted  some  firewood,  —  and  I  want- 
ed small  wood  terribly." 

The  baroness  shrugged  her  shoulders 
at  this  kitchen  philosophy,  and  moved 
away  with  Josephine. 

The  doctor  detained  Laure.  "  Now 
it  is  no  use  telling  your  mother,  to 
annoy  her,  but  this  tree  lias  been  cut 
down." 

"  Impossible  !  " 

"  Fact.  Come  and  look  at  the 
stub.  0,  I  have  stood  and  seen 
thousands  of  trees  felled,  —  it  is  an 
interesting  operation  ;  comes  next  to 
taking  off  a  —  hem  !  See  how  clean 
three  fourths  of  the  wood  have  come 
away.  They  have  had  the  cunning  to 
cut  three  feet  above  the  ground,  too  ; 


but  this  is  not  Nature's  work,  —  it  is 
man's.  Laure,  it  wanted  but  this ; 
you  have  an  enemy,  —  a  secret  ene- 
my." 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  Laure,  with  flashing 
eyes,  and  making  her  hand  into  an 
angular  snowball;  "oh!  that  I  had 
him  here  !     I  'd  —    Ali !  ah  !  " 

This  doughty  threat  ended  in  two 
screams,  for  a  young  gentleman 
sprang  from  the  road  over  the  hedge, 
and  alighted  close  to  them.  He  took 
off  his  hat,  and,  blushing  like  a  rose, 
poured  out  a  flood  of  excuses. 

"  Mademoiselle  —  monsieur,  I  saw 
that  a  large  tree  had  fallen,  and  my 
curiosity  —  forgive  my  indiscretion," 
—  and  he  affected  to  retreat,  but  cast 
a  lingering  look  at  the  fallen  tree. 

"  Remain,  monsieur,"  said  St.  Au- 
bin,  politely  ;  "  and,  as  your  eyes  are 
younger  than  mine,  I  will  even  ask 
you  to  examine  the  stump  and  also 
the  tree,  and  tell  me  whether  my  sus- 
picions ai'e  correct.  Has  this  tree 
fallen  by  accident,  or  by  tiie  hand  of 
man  ?     Pronounce,  monsieur." 

Riviere  darted  on  the  stump  with 
the  fire  of  curiosity  in  his  face,  and 
examined  it  keenly.  His  deportment 
was  not  bad  comedy. 

He  pronounced :  "  This  tree  has 
been  cut  down.  Sec,  mademoiselle," 
cried  the  young  rogue,  determined  to 
bring  her  into  the  conversation,  "  ob- 
serve this  cut  here  in  the  wood  ;  look, 
here  are  the  marks  of  the  teeth  of  a 
saw." 

This  brought  Laure  close  to  him, 
and  he  gave  a  prolix  explanation  to 
keep  her  there,  and  asked  her  whether 
she  saw  this,  and  whether  she  saw 
that ;  so  then  she  was  obliged  to  speak 
to  him.  He  proved  to  their  entire 
satisfaction  that  somebody  had  cut 
down  the  elm. 

"  The  rogue  !  "  cried  St.  Aubin. 

"  The  wretch  !  "  cried  Laure. 

Riviere  looked  down,  and  resumed 
his  inspection  of  the  stump. 

"  0  that  I  had  him  !  "  cried  Laure, 
still  at  fever  heat. 

"  I  wish  you  had,  mademoiselle," 
said  Edouard,    with    a    droll    looL 


66 


WHITE  LIES. 


Then,  with  an  air  of  imposing  gravity: 
"  Monsieur,"  says  he,  "  I  have  the 
honor  to  serve  tlie  government  in  this 
district,  as  you  may  perhajw  be 
aware." 

St.  Aubin  looked  to  Laure  for  ex- 
planation. 

Siie  would  not  give  any,  because  by 
revealing  the  young  man's  name  slie 
would  have  enabled  St.  Aubin  to  put 
tlie  purse  and  tiiis  jump  over  the 
hedge  together.  She  colored  at  the 
bare  thought,  but  said  nothing. 

Riviere  went  on. 

"  If  you  really  suspect  this  has 
been  done  out  of  malice,  I  will  set  an 
inquiry  on  foot." 

"  You  are  very  good,  monsieur.  It 
certainly  is  a  mysterious  affair." 

"  In  short,  give  yourself  no  further 
anxiety  about  it,  sir.  I  take  it  into 
my  hands,  —  in  doing  so,  I  merely  dis- 
charge my  duty  ;  need  I  add,  madem- 
oiselle, that  duty  is  for  once  a  pleasure. 
If  any  of  the  neighbors  is  the  culprit, 
it  will  transpire ;  if  not,  still  the 
present  government  is,  I  assure  you, 
sir,  a  Briareus,  and  one  of  its  hands 
will  fiiU  sooner  or  later  on  him  who 
has  dared  to  annoy  you,  mademoi- 
selle." 

As  a  comment  on  these  words  of 
weight,  he  drew  out  his  pocket-book 
witli  such  an  air  :  made  a  minute  or 
two,  and  returned  it  to  his  pocket. 

"  Monsieur,  mademoiselle,  receive 
once  more  my  excuses  for  my  indis- 
creet curiosity,  which  I  shall  never 
cease  to  regret,  unless  it  should  lead 
to  the  discovery  of  what  you  have  at 
heart."     And  he  bowed  himself  away. 

"  A  charming  young  man,  my 
dear." 

"  What,  that  little  buck, —  do  you 
see  charms  in  him  ?  —  where  ?  " 

"Buck  ■?  a  young  Apollo,  beaming 
with  goodness  as  well  as  intelli- 
gence." 

"  Uh  1  oh  !  oh  !  doctor." 

"  I  have  not  seen  such  a  face  for 
ever  so  long,"  cried  the  doctor,  get- 
ting angry. 

"  I  don't  desire  to  see  such  another 
for  ever  so  long." 


"Confess,  at  least,  that  his  man- 
ners are  singularly  graceful." 

"  Kepublican  ease,  doctor,  —  ad- 
mire it  —  those  who  can." 

"  It  was  the  respectful  ease  of  a 
young  person  not  desirous  to  attract 
attention  to  his  own  grace,  but  simply 
to  be  polite." 

"  Now  I  thought  his  flying  over  our 
hedge,  and  taking  our  affairs  on  him 
and  his  little  pocket-book,  a  great 
piece  of  effrontery." 

"  If  it  had  not  been  done  with  equal 
modesty  and  deference,"  replied  St. 
Aubin  ;  "  but  the  poor  boy  is  a  Re- 
publican. So  you  cannot  be  just. 
O  politics!  politics! — you  madden 
the  brain,  —  you  bandage  the  judg- 
ment,—  you  corrupt  the  heart,  —  let 
us  see  whether  they  have  blinded  your 
very  eyes.  Come,  did  you  notice  his 
color,  —  roses  and  lilies  side  by  side  1 
Come,  now." 

"  A  boy's  complexion,  staring  red 
and  white !  —  Yes." 

"  And  his  eyes  full  of  soul." 

"  Yes,  he  had  wildish  eyes.  If  you 
want  to  be  stared  out  of  countenance, 
send  for  Monsieur  Riv —  hum  —  what 
did  he  say  his  name  was  1 " 

"  I  forget.  A  figure  like  Antinous, 
with  all  Diana's  bounding  grace." 

"  O,  he  can  jump  high  enough  to 
frighten  one  :  enchanting  quality." 

"  Well,  mademoiselle,  I  shall  not 
subject  him  to  further  satire  by  prais- 
ing him.  He  serves  France  and  not 
the  Bourbons  ;  and  is  therefore  a 
monster,  ugly  sind  even  old.  Let  us 
speak  of  more  important  matters." 

"  If  you  please,"  said  Laure,  dryly. 
And  they  did. 

And  the  effect  of  the  rise  in  themes 
was  that  Laure  became  distracted, 
and  listened  badly ;  and  every  now 
.and  then  she  slipped  back  to  the  aban- 
doned subject,  and  made  a  number  of 
half-concessions,  one  at  a  time,  in  fa- 
vor of  the  young  Republican's  looks, 
manners,  and  conduct,  — all  to  please 
the  doctor.  So  that  at  last  she  and 
St.  Aubin  were  not  so  very  far  apart 
in  their  estimate  of  the  youth.  Ar- 
rived at  the  park  gate  leading  into  the 


WHITE   LIES. 


G7 


Plcasancc,  she  turned  suddenly  round, 
beamed  and  blushed  all  over  with 
pleasure,  and  put  her  arms  round  the 
puzzled  doctor's  neck  and  kissed  him  ; 
then  scudded  oflt"  like  a  rabbit  after  her 
sister  who  was  on  the  south  terrace. 

"  Dard,  I  've  a  little  job  for  you," 
cried  Jacinth  a,  cheerily. 

"  Ugh !  oh  !  have  you  ?  " 

"  You  must  put  up  the  grindstone. 
Stop!  don't  gooff,  —  that  is  not  all. 
Put  a  handle  in  it,  and  then  sharpen 
the  great  axe,  —  the  hatchet  is  not  a 
bit  of  use." 

"  Any  more  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  to-morrow  you  must  go  into 
the  park  with  your  wheelbarrow,  and 
cut  me  billet  wood  for  up  stairs  and 
small  wood  for  my  oven." 

The  much-enduring  man  set  about 
this  new  job. 

The  demoiselles  De  Beaurepaire, 
coming  out  into  the  park  for  their  af- 
ternoon walk,  saw  a  figure  hacking 
«way  at  the  fallen  tree.  They  went 
towards  it  near  enough  to  recognize 
Dard  :  then  they  turned  and  took 
their  usual  walk.  They  made  sure 
Jacintha  had  ordered  him  to  do  it. 

They  had  not  been  in  the  park  a 
minute  before  a  telescope  was  levelled 
from  a  window  at  them,  and  the  next 
moment  M.  Edouard  was  running  up 
the  road  to  Beaurepaire. 

Now  as  he  came  near  the  fallen  tree 
he  heard  loud  cries  for  help,  followed 
by  groans  of  pain.  He  bounded  over 
the  hedge,  and  there  was  Dard  hang- 
ing over  his  axe  faint  and  moaning. 

"What  is  the  matter  1 — what  is 
the  matter  ?  "  cried  Edouard,  running 
to  iiim. 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  —  cut  my  foot." 

Edouard  looked,  and  turned  sick, 
for  there  was  a  gash  right  through 
Dard's  shoe,  and  the  blood  welling 
up  through  it.  But,  recovering  him- 
self by  an  effort  of  the  will,  he  cried 
out :  — 

"  Courage,  my  lad  !  don't  give  in, 
—  thank  Heaven  there's  no  artery 
there.  0  dear,  it  is  a  terrible  cut ! 
Let  us  get  vou  home,  that  is  the  first 
thing !     Can  vou  walk  ?  " 


"  Lord  bless  you,  no !  nor  stand 
either  without  help." 

Edouard  flew  to  the  wheelbarrow, 
and  reversing  it  spun  a  lot  of  billet 
out. 

"  Ye  must  not  do  that,"  said  Dard, 
with  all  the  energy  he  was  capable  of 
in  his  present  condition,  —  "  why, 
that  is  Jacintha's  Avood." 

"  To  the  Devil  with  Jacintha  and 
her  wood  too  !  "  cried  Edouard,  "  a 
man  is  worth  more  than  a  fagot. 
Come,  Dard,  I  shall  wheel  you  home : 
it  is  only  just  across  the  park." 

With  some  difhculty  he  lifted  him 
into  the  barrow. 

"Ah!  how  lucky,"  he  cried,  "I 
have  got  my  shooting-jacket  on,  so 
here 's  my  brandy  flask  :  take  a  suck 
at  it,  old  fellow,  —  and  courage !  " 

Dard  stretched  out  his  hand  with 
sudden  animation  for  the  flask,  and  it 
was  soon  glued  to  his  lips. 

Now  the  ladies,  as  they  walked,  saw 
a  man  wheeling  a  barrow  across  the 
paik,  and  took  no  particular  notice ; 
but,  as  Riviere  was  making  for  the 
same  point,  presently  the  barrow 
came  near  enough  for  them  to  see  a 
man's  head  and  arms  in  it.  Laure 
was  the  first  to  notice  this. 

"  Look  !  look !  "  said  she,  "  if  he  is 
not  wheeling  Dard  in  the  barrow 
now." 

"  Who  ? " 

"  Do  you  ask  who  ?  Who  provides 
all  our  amusement  ?  " 

"  Laure,  I  do  not  like  this.  I  am 
afraid  there  is  something  wrong. 
Consider,  Monsieur  Riviere  would 
not  wheel  Dard  all  across  the  park 
for  amusement." 

"  0  let  us  run  and  see,"  cried 
Laure. 

Now  Riviei"e  did  not  intend  them 
to  see  ;  ho  had  calculated  on  getting 
to  the  corner  a  considerable  time  be- 
fore the  promenaders.  But  they 
hastened  their  speed,  and  defeated 
his  intention.  He  had  taken  his  coat 
off  too,  and  made  a  great  effort  to 
beat  them. 

"  Dard,"  said  he,  "  now  here  are 
the  young  ladies,  what  a  pity,  — put 


68 


WHITE  LIE?!. 


mv  coat  over  your  foot,  that  is  a  good 
feflow." 

"What  for?"  said  Dard,  sulki- 
ly. "  No !  let  them  see  what  they 
have  done  with  their  little  odd  jobs  : 
this  is  my  last  for  one  while.  I 
sha'n't  go  on  two  legs  again  this 
year." 

The  ladies  came  up  with  them. 

"  0  monsieur,"  said  Josephine, 
"  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  We  have  met  with  a  little  acci- 
dent, mademoiselle,  that  is  all.  Dard 
has  hurt  his  foot,  —  nothing  to  speak 
of,  but  I  thought  he  would  be  best  at 
home." 

Laure  raised  the  coat  which  Riv- 
iere in  spite  of  Dard  had  flung  over 
his  foot,  and  removed  it. 

"0,  he  is  bleeding!  Dard  is 
bleeding!  O  my  poor  Dard.  Oh! 
oh  !  oh ! " 

"  Hush !  Laure  !  Laure  !  " 

"No  !  don't  put  him  out  of  heart, 
mademoiselle.  Take  another  pull  at 
the  flask,  Dard.  If  you  please,  ladies, 
I  must  have  him  home  without  de- 
lay." 

"  0  yes,  but  I  want  him  to  have  a 
surgeon,"  cried  Josephine.  "  Ah  ! 
why  are  we  so  poor,  and  no  horses 
nor  people  to  send  off  as  we  used  to 
have  ?  " 

"  Mademoiselle,  have  no  fears. 
Dard  shall  have  the  best  surgeon  in 
the  district  by  his  side  in  less  than  an 
hour:  the  town  is  but  two  short 
leagues  off." 

"  Have  you  a  horse  then  1 " 

"No;  but  I  am  as  good  a  runner 
as  any  for  miles  round.  I'll  run  it 
out  in  half  an  hour  or  die  at  it,  and 
I  '11  send  the  surgeon  up  full  gal- 
lop." 

"  Ah !  Heaven  bless  j'ou,  mon- 
sieur, you  have  a  good  heart,"  cried 
Josephine. 

"  O  yes  !  Heaven  bless  him,"  cried 
Laure. 

He  was  already  gone  :  but  these 
sweet  words  rang  in  his  ears  and  ran 
warm  round  and  round  his  heart,  as 
he  straightened  his  arms  and  his  back 
to  the  work.     When  they  had  gone 


about  a  hundred  yards,  a  single  snivel 
went  off  in  the  wheelbarrow.* 

Five  minutes  after,  Dard  was  at 
home  in  cliarge  of  his  grandmother, 
his  shoe  oft",  his  foot  in  a  wet  linen 
cloth ;  and  the  statesman,  his  coat 
tied  round  the  neck,  squared  his 
shoulders  and  ran  the  two  short 
leagues  out.  He  ran  them  in  thirty- 
five  minutes,  found  the  surgeon  at 
home,  told  the  case,  pooh-poohed  that 
worthy's  promise  to  go  to  the  patient 
presently,  darted  into  his  stable,  sad- 
dled the  horse,  brought  him  round, 
saw  the  surgeon  into  the  saddle, 
started  him,  dined  at  the  restaura- 
teur's, strolled  back,  and  was  in  time 
to  get  a  good  look  at  the  chateau  of 
Beaurepaire  before  the  sun  set  on  it. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Jacintha  came  into  Dard's  cot- 
tage that  evening. 

"  So  you  have  been  and  done  it,  my 
man,"  cried  she,  cheerfully  and  rath- 
er roughly  ;  then  sat  down  and  rocked 
herself,  with  her  apron  over  her  head. 

She  explained  this  anomalous  pro- 
ceeding to  his  grandmother  privately. 

"  I  thought  I  would  keep  his  heart 
up  any wav ;  but  you  see  I  was  not 
fit." 

Calmer,  she  comforted  Dard,  and 
ended  by  cross  questioning  him.  The 
young  ladies  had  told  her  what  they 
had  seen,  and,  though  Dard  was  too 
wrapped  up  in  himself  to  dwell  with 
any  gusto  upon  Edouard's  zeal  and 
humanity,  still,  as  far  as  facts  went, 
he  confirmed  the  ladies'  comments. 

Jacintha's  heart  yearned  towards 
the  young  man.  She  was  in  the 
town  next  day  making  a  purchase  or 
two,  so  she  called  on  him. 

"I  thought  I  would  just  step  in  to 
put  a  question  to  you.  Would  you 
like  to  get  a  word  with  her  alone  '(  " 

"  O  Jacintha  ! " 

*  I  beg  the  polite  writer's  pardon :  first,  for 
wheeling  it  on  to  the  scene  at  all ;  secondly,  for 
not  calling  it  a  monotroch. 


¥ 


WHITE  LIES. 


69 


"  Hush !  don't  sliout  like  that ;  why, 
you  may  be  sure  slie  is  alone  some- 
times, though  not  very  often.  They 
love  one  another  so,  those  two." 

Jacintha  then  develojjed  her  plan. 

As  the  clout  was  his  signal,  so  she 
must  have  a  signal  to  show  wlien  she 
wanted  to  speak  to  him,  and  that  sig- 
nal should  be  a  sheet,  whieh  she 
would  hang  over  the  battlement  of 
Beaurepaire  Chateau. 

"  So  when  you  see  a  white  sheet, 
you  come  to  me,  —  the  quicker  the 
better." 

"  You  dear  girl." 

"  O,  it'  is  the  least  I  can  do  now. 
You  know  what  I  mean.  I  won't 
speak  about  it.  Words  in  a  woman's 
mouth,  —  I  told  you  what  they  arc. 
No,  I  won't  end  in  steam,  like  boiling 
water  does.  I  won't  say,  I  '11  show 
you  what  you  have  done,  my  angel." 

Her  eyes  told  him  all  the  same. 

"  Where  is  my  clout  ?  You  never 
left  it  out  there  on  the  tree,  did  you  1 " 
and  she  looked  solemn. 

"  Jacintha  !  on  my  knees  I  demand 
pardon  for  my  fatal  heedlessness." 

Jacintha  put  her  hand  under  her 
apron  and  pulled  out  the  clout. 

"  There,"  said  she,  and  threw  it 
him.  "  Now  suppose  you  had  wanted 
to  speak  to  me,  —  ah  well,  we  can't 
have  all.  You  have  a  good  heart, 
but  no  head." 

Dard's  grandmother  had  a  little 
house,  a  little  land,  a  little  money, 
and  a  little  cow.  She  could  just  keep 
Dai'd  and  herself,  and  her  resources 
enabled  Dard  to  do  so  many  little  odd 
jobs  for  love,  yet  keep  his  favorite  or- 
gan tolerably  filled. 

"  Go  to  bed,  my  little  son,  since 
you  are  hashed,"  said  Dard's  grand- 
mother. 

"  Bed  be  hanged,"  cried  he.  "  What 
good  is  bed  ?  That 's  another  silly  old 
custom  wants  doing  away  with.  It 
weakens  you,  —  it  turns  you  into 
train  oil,  —  it  is  the  doctor's  friend, 
and  the  patient's  enemy.  Many  a  one 
shuts  up  through  taking  to  bed,  that 
could  have  got  through  his  trouble,  if 


he  had  kept  his  feet  like  a  man.  If  I 
was  dying  I  would  not  go  to  bed  till 
I  went  to  the  bed  with  a  spade  in  it. 
No  !  sit  up  like  Julius  Cajsar,  and  die 
as  you  hved,  in  your  clothes :  don't 
strip  yourself:  let  the  old  women 
strip  you,  —  that  is  their  delight  lay- 
ing out  a  chap  :  that  is  the  time  they 
brighten  up,  the  old  sorceresses." 
He  concluded  this  amiable  rhapsody, 
the  latter  part  of  which  was  levelled 
at  a  lugubrious  weakness  of  his  grand- 
mother's for  the  superfluous  embel- 
lishment of  the  dead,  by  telling  her 
it  was  bad  enough  to  be  tied  by  the 
foot  like  an  ass,  without  settling  down 
on  his  back  like  a  cast  sheep.  "  Give 
me  the  arm-chair.  I  '11  sit  in  it,  and 
if  I  have  any  friends  they  will  show  it 
now:  they  will  come  and  tell  me  what 
is  going  on  in  the  village,  for  I  can't 
get  out  to  see  it  and  hear  it,  they  must 
know  that." 

Seated  in  state  in  his  granny's  easy- 
chair,  the  loss  of  which  after  thirty 
years'  use  made  her  miserable,  she 
could  n't  tell  why,  le  Sieur  Dard 
awaited  his  friends. 

His  friends  did  not  come. 

The  rain  did,  and  poured  all  the 
afternoon.  Night  came,  and  solitude. 
Dard  boiled  over  with  bitterness. 

"  They  are  then  a  lot  of  pigs  ;  all 
those  fellows  I  have  drank  with  at 
Bigot's  and  Simmet's.  Down  with 
all  fair-weather  friends  ! !  " 

The  next  day  the  sun  shone,  the  air 
was  clear,  and  the  sky  blue. 

"  Ah  !  let  us  see  now,"  cried  Dard. 

Alas  !  no  fellow-drinkers,  no  fellow- 
smokers,  came  to  console  their  hurt 
fellow.  And  Dard,  who  had  boiled 
with  anger  yesterday,  was  now  sad 
and  despondent. 

"  Down  with  egoists,"  he  groaned. 

However,  about  three  in  the  after- 
noon came  a  tap  at  the  door. 

"Ah  !  at  last,"  cried  Dard  :  "come 
in!" 

The  door  was  slowly  opened,  and 
two  lovely  faces  appeared  at  the  thresh- 
old. The  demoiselles  Dc  Beaure- 
paire wore  a  tender  look  of  interest 
and  pity  when  they  caught  sight  of 


70 


WHITE  LIES. 


Dard,  and  on  the  old  woman  courtesy- 
ing  to  tliem  they  courtesied  to  her  and 
Dard.  But  when  Dard  put  his  arms 
on  the  chair  to  rise  and  salute  them, 
Laure  put  up  her  tinj^er  and  peremp- 
torily forbade  him.  The  next  moment 
they  were  close  to  him,  one  a  little  to 
his  right,  the  other  to  his  left,  and  two 
pair  of  sapphire  eyes  with  the  mild 
lustre  of  sympathy  playing  down  in- 
cessantly upon  him.  How  was  lie  ? 
How  had  he  slept  ?  Was  he  in  pain  ? 
Was  he  in  much  pain  '?  tell  the  truth 
now.  Was  there  anything  to  eat  or 
drink  he  could  fancy  ?  Jacintha 
should  make  it  and  bring  it,  if  it  was 
within  their  means. 

A  prince  could  not  have  had  more 
solicitous  attendants ;  nor  a  fairy 
king  lovelier  and  less  earthly  ones. 

He  looked  in  heavy  amazement 
from  one  to  the  other.  Laure  laughed 
at  him,  then  Josephine  smiled.  Laure 
bent,  and  was  by  some  supple  process 
on  one  knee,  taking  the  measure  of 
the  wounded  foot.  When  siie  first 
approached  it  he  winced ;  but  the 
next  moment  he  smiled.  He  had 
never  been  touched  like  this,  —  it  was 
contact  and  no  contact,  —  she  treated 
his  foot  as  the  zephyr  the  violets,  — 
she  handled  it  as  if  it  had  been  some 
sacred  thing.  By  the  help  of  his  eye 
he  could  just  know  she  was  touching 
him. 

"  There,  monsieur,  you  are  meas- 
ured for  a  list  shoe." 

"  And  I  will  make  it  for  you, 
Dard,"  said  Josephine. 

"  Don't  you  believe  her,  Dard  :  I 
shall  make  it :  she  is  indolent." 

"  We  will  both  make  it,  then,"  said 
Josephine. 

Dard  grinned  an  uncertain  grin. 

At  the  door  they  turned  and  sent 
back  each  a  smile  brimful  of  comfort, 
promise,  and  kindness,  to  stay  with 
him  till  next  visit. 

Dard  scratched  his  head. 

Dard  pondered  half  an  hour  in 
silence  thus,  or  thereabouts. 

The  old  woman  had  been  to  milk 
the  cow. 

She  now  came  into  the  kitchen. 


Dard  sang  out  lustily  to  lier: 
"  Granny,  I  'm  better.  Keep  your 
heart  up,  old  lady  :  we  sha'  n't  die 
this  bout.  I  am  good  for  a  few  more 
little  odd  jobs,"  said  he,  with  a  sud- 
den tincture  of  bitterness. 

Presently  in  came  Jacintha  with  a 
basket,  crying,  "I  have  not  a  minute 
to  stay  now  :  Dard,  my  young  ladies 
have  scut  you  two  bottles  of  Bur- 
gundy, —  you  won't  like  that,  —  and 
here  is  a  loaf  I  have  just  made.  And 
now  I  must  go " :  and  she  stayed 
three  quarters  of  an  hour  with  him, 
and  cheered  him  mightily. 

At  dusk  Riviere  rode  by,  fastened 
his  horse  up,  and  came  bustling  in. 

"  How  do  we  get  on,  dame  ?  " 

"  Pretty  well,  monsieur.  He  was 
very  dull  at  first,  but  now  he  is  bright- 
ened up  a  bit,  poor  thing.  All  the 
great  folks  come  here  to  see  him,  — 
the  demoiselles  De  Beaurepaire  and 
all." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  like  them." 

"  O,  as  to  that,  my  little  son  is 
respected  far  and  wide,"  said  the  old 
lady,  inflating  herself;  and  as  grati- 
tude cannot  live  an  instant  with  con- 
ceit, she  went  on  to  say,  "  and  after 
all  it  is  the  least  they  can  do,  for  he 
has  been  a  good  friend  to  them,  and 
never  seen  the  color  of  their  money. 
Also !  behold  him  hashed  in  their 
service,  —  a  wounded  foot,  —  that  is 
all  ever  he  took  out  of  Beaurepaire." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  cried  Dard, 
brutally  ;  "  if  I  don't  complain,  what 
right  have  you "?  "  He  added  dog- 
gedly, but  rather  gently,  "the  axe 
was  in  my  hand,  not  in  theirs,  —  let 
us  be  just  before  all  things." 

The  statesman  sat  at  breakfast, 
eating  roasted  kidneys  with  a  little 
melted  butter  and  parsley  under 
them,  and  drinking  a  tumbler  of  old 
Medoc  slightly  diluted,  —  a  modest 
repast  becoming  his  age,  and  the  state 
of  his  affections.  On  his  writing-table 
lay  waiting  for  him  a  battle  array  of 
stubborn  figures.  He  looked  at  them 
over  his  tumbler.  "  Ah  !  "  thought 
he,  "  to-day  I  must  be  all  the  state's. 


WHITE   LIES. 


71 


he  knocked  with  beating 


Even  you  must  not  keep  me  from 
those  dry  calculations,  0  well-beloved 
chateau  of  Beau-re-pai —  ah  !  my 
telescope  —  it  is!  —  it  is."  [Exit 
statesman. 

The  white  flag  was  waving  from 
the  battlements. 

When  he  got  half-way  to  Beaure- 
paire,  he  found  to  his  horror  he  had 
forgotten  that  wretched  clout.  How- 
ever, he  would  not  go  back.  He 
trusted  to  Jacintha's  intelligence.  It 
did  not  deceive  him.  He  found  her 
waiting  for  him. 

"  She  is  gone  alone  to  Dard's 
house.  The  other  will  be  after  her 
soon,  —  forward  !  !  " 

He  flew 
heart   at   Dard's    door.     At   another 
time   he   should    have   knocked    and 
opened  without  further  invitation. 

"  Come  in,"  cried  Dard's  stentorian 
voice.  He  entered,  and  there  seated 
on  a  chair,  with  a  book  in  her  hand, 
was  —  Mademoiselle  Josephine  de 
Bcaurepaire. 

Eiviere  stared,  —  stupefied,  ravsti- 
fied. 

The  young  lady  rose  with  a  smile, 
courtesied,  and  reseated  herself.  She 
was  as  self-possessed  as  he  was  flurried 
and  puzzled  what  to  say  or  do.  He 
recovered  himself  a  little,  inquired 
with  wonderful  solicitude  Dard's 
present  symptoms,  and,  suddenly  re- 
membering the  other  lady  was  expect- 
ed, he  said :  "  I  leave  you  in  good 
hands  ;  angel  visitors  are  best  enjoyed 
alone,"  and  retired  slowly,  with  a 
deep  obeisance.  Once  outside  the 
door,  dignity  vanished  in  alacrity  ;  he 
flew  off"  into  the  park,  and  ran  as  hard 
as  he  could  towards  the  chateau.  He 
was  within  fifty  yards  of  the  little 
gate,  when  sure  enough  Laure  emerged. 
They  met ;  his  heart  beating  violently. 

"Ah!  mademoiselle!  —  " 

"Ah!  it  is  Monsieur  Riviere,  I  de- 
clare," said  Laure,  coolly,  all  over 
blushes,  though. 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle,  and  I  am  so 
out  of  breath.  I  am  sent  for  you. 
Mademoiselle  Josephine  awaits  you 
at  Dard's  house." 


"  She  sent  you  for  me  ?  "  inquired 
Laure,  arching  her  brows. 

"  Not  positively.  Mademoiselle  Lau- 
re." 

"  How  pat  he  has  our  names  too  !  " 

"  But  I  could  sec  I  should  please 
her  by  coming  for  you ;  there  is,  I 
believe,  a  bull  or  so  about." 

"  A  bull  or  two  ;  don't  talk  in  that 
reckless  way,  monsieur.  She  has 
done  well  to  send  you ;  let  us  make 
haste." 

"  But  I  am  a  little  out  of  breath." 

"  0  never  mind  that  !  I  abhor 
bulls." 

"  But,  mademoiselle,  we  are  not 
come  to  them  yet,  and  the  faster  we 
go  now  the  sooner  we  shall." 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  always  like  to  get  a 
disagreeable  thing  over  as  soon  as 
possil)le,"  said  Laure,  slyly. 

"  Ah,"  replied  Edouard,  mourn- 
fully, "  in  that  case  let  us  make 
haste." 

After  a  little  spurt,  mademoiselle 
relaxed  the  pace  of  her  own  accord, 
and  even  went  slower  than  before. 
Tiiere  was  an  awkward  silence. 
Edouard  eyed  the  park  boundary,  and 
thought :  "  Now  what  I  have  to  say  I 
must  say  before  we  get  to  you  "  ;  and, 
being  thus  impressed  with  the  neces- 
sity of  immediate  action,  he  turned  to 
lead. 

Laure  eyed  him  from  under  her 
long  lashes,  and  the  ground,  alternate- 

At  last  he  began  to  color  and  flut- 
ter. She  saw  something  was  coming, 
!  and  all  the  woman  donned  defensive 
armor. 

"  Mademoiselle." 

"Monsieur." 

"  Is  it  quite  decided  that  your  family 
refuse  my  acquaintance,  my  services, 
which  I  still — forgive  me — press  on 
you  ?  Ah  !  Mademoiselle  Laure,  am 
I  never  to  have  the  happiness  of — of 
—even  speaking  to  you  ?  " 

"It  appears  so, "said  Laure,  dryly. 

"Have  you  then  decided  against 
me,  too  ?  That  happy  day  it  was 
only  mademoiselle  who  crushed  my 
hopes." 


72 


WHITE   LIES. 


"  I  ?  "  asked  Laure  ;  "  what  have  I 
to  do  with  it?" 

"  Can  j'ou  ask  1  Do  you  not  see 
that  it  is  not  Mademoiselle  Josephine, 
but  you  I —  What  am  I  sayinj^  ? 
but,  alas  !  you  understand  too  well." 

"  No,  monsieur,"  said  Laure,  with 
a  puzzled  air,  "  I  do  not  understand. 
Not  one  word  of  all  you  are  saying 
do  I  comprehend.  I  am  sure  it  is 
Josephine  and  not  me  ;  for  I  am  only 
a  child." 

"  You  a  child  !  an  angel  like  you  1  " 

"  Ask  any  of  them,"  said  she,  pout- 
ing ;  "  they  will  tell  you  I  am  a 
child ;  and  it  is  to  that  I  owe  this  con- 
versation, no  doubt ;  if  you  did  not 
look  on  me  as  a  child,  you  would  not 
dare  take  this  liberty  with  mc,"  said 
the  young  cat,  scratching  without  a 
moment's  notice. 

"Ah,  mademoiselle,  do  not  be  an- 
gry.    I  was  wrong  " 

"0,  never  mind.  Children  are 
little  creatures  without  reserve,  and 
treated  accordingly,  and  to  notice 
them  is  to  honor  them." 

"  Adieu  then,  mademoiselle.  Try 
to  believe  no  one  respects  you  more 
than  I  do." 

"Yes,  let  us  part,  for  there  is 
Dard's  house  ;  and  I  begin  to  suspect 
that  Josephine  never  sent  you." 

"  I  confess  it." 

"  There,  he  confesses  it.  I  thought 
so  all  along  !  !  What  a  dupe  I  have 
been !  ! " 

"  I  will  offend  no  more,"  said  Riv- 
iere, humbly. 

"  We  shall  see." 

"  Adieu,  mademoiselle.  God  bless 
you  !  May  you  find  friends  as  sincere 
as  I  am,  and  more  to  your  taste  !  " 

"  Heaven  hear  your  prayers  I  "  re- 
plied the  malicious  thing,  casting  up 
her  eyes  with  a  mock-tragic  air. 

Edouard  sighed  ;  a  chill  conviction 
that  she  was  both  heartless  and  empty 
fell  on  him.  He  turned  away  without 
another  word.  She  called  to  him  with 
a  sudden  airy  cheerfulness  that  made 
him  start. 

"  Stay,  monsieur,  I  forgot,  —  I  have 
something  to  tell  you." 


He  returned,  all  curiosity. 

"  And  a  fiivor  to  ask  you." 

"Ah.     Speak,  mademoiselle  !" 

"  You  have  made  a  conquest." 

"  I  have  a  difficulty  in  believing 
you,  mademoiselle." 

"  O,  it  is  not  a  lady,"  said  little 
Malice. 

"Ah!  then  it  is  possible,"  was  the 
bitter  reply. 

"  Something  better,  —  less  terres- 
trial, you  know,  it  is  a  savant.  You 
jumped,  you  spoke,  you  conquered 
Doctor  St.  Aubin,  that  day.  What 
do  you  think  he  says  I  " 

"  I  have  no  idea." 

"  He  says  you  are  handsome " 
(opening  her  eyes  to  the  full  height 
of  astonishment).  "  Ho  says  you  are 
graceful;  and,  indeed,  it  was  not  a 
bad  jump,  I  have  been  looking  at  it 
since ;  and,  O  Monsieur  Riviere,  he 
says  you  are  modest !!!!!!!" 

"  Did  he  say  all  this  before  youl" 

"  Yes." 

"  Heaven  reward  him  !  " 

"  You  agree  with  me  that  it  was 
odd  he  should  have  ventured  on  these 
statements  before  me ;  but  these  sa- 
vans  can  face  any  amount  of  contra- 
diction." 

"  You  did  me  the  honor  to  contra- 
dict all  this  1 " 

"  I  did  not  fail." 

"  Thank  you,  mademoiselle." 

"That  is  right,  be  unjust.  No, 
monsieur ;  to  detract  from  undeniable 
merit  was  not  my  real  object;  but 
not  being  quite  such  a  child  as  some 
people  think,  I  contradicted  him,  in 
order  to  —  to  —  confirm  him  in  those 
good  sentiments  ;  and  I  succeeded ; 
the  proof  is  that  the  doctor  desires 
your  acquaintance,  monsieur;  and 
now  I  come  to  the  favor  I  have  to  ask 
you." 

"  Ah,  yes,  —  the  favor." 

"  Be  so  kind  as  to  bestow  your  ac- 
quaintance on  Monsieur  St.  Aubin," 
said  Laure,  her  manner  changing  from 
sauciness  to  the  timidity  of  a  person 
asking  a  flivor.  "  He  will  not  dis- 
credit my  recommendation.  Above 
all,  he  will  not  make  difficulties,  aa 


WHITE   LIES. 


73 


we  ladies  do,  fot  he  is  really  worth 
knowing.  In  short,  believe  me,  it 
will  be  an  excellent  acquaintance  for 
you  —  and  for  him,"  added  she,  with 
all  the  grace  of  the  De  Beaurepaires. 
"  What  say  you,  monsieur  ?  " 

Riviere  was  mortified  to  the  heart's 
core.  "  She  refuses  to  know  me  her- 
self," thought  he,  "  but  she  will  use 
my  love  to  make  me  amuse  that  old 
man."  His  heart  swelled  against  her 
injustice  and  ingratitude,  and  his 
crushed  vanity  turned  to  strychnine. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  bitterly 
and  doggedly,  but  sadly,  "  were  I  so 
happy  as  to  have  your  esteem,  my 
heart  would  overflow,  not  only  on  the 
doctor,  but  on  every  honest  person 
around.  But  if  I  must  not  have  the 
acquaintance  I  value  more  than  life, 
suiter  me  to  be  alone  in  the  world, 
and  never  to  say  a  word  either  to 
Doctor  St.  Aubin  or  to  any  human 
creature,  if  I  can  help  it." 

The  imperious  young  beauty  drew 
herself  up. 

"  So  be  it,  monsieur ;  you  teach  me 
how  a  child  should  be  answered  that 
forgets  herself,  and  asks — Diea!  — 
asks  a  favor  of  a  stranger,  —  a  perfect 
stranger,"  added  she,  with  a  world  of 
small  ill-nature. 

Could  one  of  the  dog-days  change 
to  midwinter  in  a  second,  it  would 
hardly  seem  so  cold  and  cross  as  Laure 
de  Beaurepaire  turned  from  the  smil- 
ing, saucy  fairy  of  the  moment  be- 
fore. 

Edouard  felt  a  portcullis  of  ice  come 
down  between  her  and  him. 

She  courtesied  and  glided  away. 
He  bowed  and  stood  frozen  to  the  spot. 

He  felt  so  lonely  and  so  bitter,  he 
must  go  to  Jacintha  for  something  to 
lean  on  and  scold. 

He  put  his  handkerchief  up  in  the 
tree,  and  out  came  Jacintha,  curious. 

"  You  left  the  clout  at  home,  I  bet 
—  what  a  head  !  —  well,  well,  tell  us." 

"A  fine  blunder  you  made,  Jacin- 
tha. It  was  Mademoiselle  Josephine 
at  Dard's." 

"  Do  you  call  that  a  blunder,  — 
in  grate?" 


"  Yes  !  Whv,  it  is  not  Josephine 
I  love." 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  replied  Jacintha. 

"No!  no!" 

"  Change  of  wind  then  since  yes- 
terday !  " 

"  No  !  no !  How  can  you  be  so 
stupid,  —  fancy  not  seeing  it  is  Ma- 
demoiselle Laure." 

"  Laure !  that  child  ?  " 

"She  is  not  a  child;  she  is  quite 
the  reverse.  Don't  call  her  a  child,  — 
she  objects  to  it,  —  it  puts  her  in  a 
passion." 

"  You  have  deceived  me,"  said  Ja- 
cintha, severely. 

"  Never ! " 

"  You  have.  You  never  breathed 
Laure's  name  to  me." 

"  No  more  I  did  Josephine's." 

"Did  n't  you?  Are  you  sure? 
Well,  if  you  did  not,  what  has  that  to 
do  with  it  ?  You  pretended  to  be  in 
love  with  my  young  lady." 

"  No  !  with  one  of  them,  I  said." 

"  Well !  and  how  was  I  to  guess  by 
that  it  was  Laure  ? " 

"And  how  were  you  to  guess  it 
was  Josephine  ? " 

"  There  was  no  guessing  in  the 
case  ;  if  it  was  not  Josephine,  anybody 
with  sense  would  have  told  a  body  it 
was  Laure ;  but  you  are  mad.  Be- 
sides, who  would  look  at  Laure  when 
Josephine  was  by  ?  Mademoiselle 
Laure  is  very  well ;  she  has  a  pretty 
little  face  enough,  but  she  is  not  a 
patch  upon  mademoiselle." 

"  Why,  Jacintha,  you  are  blind. 
But  this  is  the  way  ;  you  women  are 
no  judges  of  female  beauty.  They 
are  both  lovely,  but  Laure  is  the 
brightest,  the  gayest  —  O,  her  smile ! 
It  seems  brighter  than  ever  now  ;  for 
I  have  seen  her  frown,  Jacintha ;  think 
of  that  and  pity  me.  I  have  seen  her 
frown." 

"  And  if  you  look  this  way  you  may 
see  me  frown." 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with 
you  ?  " 

"  The  matter  is,  that  I  wash  my 
hands  of  tlie  whole  affair,  it  is  infa- 
mous." 


74 


WHITE  LIES. 


Jacintha  tlien  let  him  know,  in  her 
own  hinguage,  that  such  frightful  ir- 
regularities as  this  could  not  pass  in 
an  ancient  family,  where  precedent 
and  decorum  reigned,  and  had  for 
centuries.  "  The  elder  daughter  must 
be  got  off  our  hands  first ;  then  let 
the  younger  take  her  turn."  To  gild 
the  pill  of  decorum,  she  returned  to  her 
original  argument.  "  Be  more  reason- 
able, my  son,  above  all,  less  blind. 
She  is  nice,  she  is  frisky ;  but  she  is 
not  like  Josephine,  the  belle  of  belles." 

Edouard,  in  rcjjly,  anxious  to  con- 
ciliate his  only  friend,  affected  to  con- 
cede the  palm  of  beauty  to  the  elder 
sister,  but  he  suggested  that  Laura 
was  quite  beautiful  enough  for  ordi- 
nary purposes,  —  such  as  to  be  fallen 
in  love  with,  —  nearer  his  own  age, 
too,  than  Josephine.  lie  was  pro- 
ceeding adroitly  to  suggest  that  he 
stood  hardly  high  enough  in  France 
to  pretend  to  the  heiress  of  Beaure- 
paire,  and  must  not  look  above  the 
younger  branch  of  that  ancient  tree, 
when  Jacintha,  who  had  not  listened 
to  a  word  he  was  saying,  but  had  got 
over  her  surprise,  and  was  now  con- 
verted to  his  side  by  her  own  reflec- 
tions, interrupted  him. 

"And  therefore,  yes,"  said  this 
vacillating  personage,  carrying  out 
an  internal  chain  of  reasons.  "  Next, 
I  could  not  promise  you  Josepliine, 
but  Laure  you  shall  have  if  you  can 
be  content  with  her." 

The  boy  tiirew  his  arms  round  her 
neck. 

"  Quite  content  with  Laure,"  said 
he,  —  "  quite  content,  you  dear  Jacin- 
tlia."     Then  his  countenance  fell. 

"  I  forgot,"  said  he  ;  "  in  the  heat 
of  discussion  one  forgets  so." 

"  Forgot  what  ?  "  cried  Jacintha,  in 
some  alarm. 

"  I  have  just  lost  her  forever." 

Jacintha  put  her  hands  on  lier  hips, 
knuckles  downwards. 

"  Now  then,"  said  she,  with  some- 
thing between  a  groan  and  a  grin, 
"  what  have  you  been  at  ?  " 

He  related  liis  interview,  all  but  the 
last  passage. 


Jacintha  congratulated  him. 

"  Why,  it  goes  swimmingly.  Yon 
are  very  lucky.  I  wonder  she  spoke 
to  you  at  all  out  there  all  alone.  In 
Dard's  cottage  I  knew  she  would,  be- 
cause she  could  not  help.     Well." 

Then  lie  told  her  Laure's  parting 
request. 

"  I  say,  mademoiselle,"  cried  Ja- 
cintha, "  you  are  coming  on  pretty 
well  for  a  novice.  There  is  one  that 
has  a  head.  You  thanked  and  blessed 
her,  &e." 

"  No,  indeed,  I  did  not.  I  declined 
—  oh  !  very  respectfully." 

"  Very  respectfully  !  "  repeated  Ja- 
cintha, with  disdain.  "  You  really 
are  not  safe  to  go  alone.  Never- 
theless, I  can't  he  always  at  his  el- 
bow. Do  you  know  what  you  have 
done  1 " 

"  No." 

"  You  have  made  her  hate  you,  that 
is  all." 

Riviere  defended  himself. 

"  It  was  so  unjust  to  refuse  me 
her  acquaintance,  and  then  ask  me  to 
amuse  that  ancient  personage." 

Jacintha  looked  him  in  the  face, 
sneering  like  a  fiend. 

"  Listen  to  a  parable.  Monsieur  the 
Blind,"  said  she.  "  Once  there  was 
a  little  hoy  madly  in  love  with  rasp- 
berry jam." 

"  A  thing  I  hate." 

"  It  is  false,  monsieur ;  one  does 
not  hate  raspberry  jam.  He  came  to 
the  store  closet,  wiiere  he  knew  there 
were  a  score  jars  of  it,  and  —  oh! 
misery  —  the  door  was  locked.  He 
kicked  tiie  door,  and  wept  bitterly." 

"  Poor  child,  his  grief  affects  me." 

"Naturally,  monsieur, — a  fellow- 
feeling.  His  mamma  came  and  said, 
'  Here  is  the  key,'  and  gave  him  the 
key.  And  what  did  he  do  1  Why, 
he  fell  to  crying  and  roaring,  and 
kicking  the  door.  '  I  don't  wa-wa-wa- 
wa-nt  the  kcy-ey-ey.  I  wa-a-ant  the 
jam,  —  oh  !  "oh  !  oh  !  oh  ! '  "  and 
Jacintha  mimicked  to  the  life  the 
mingled  grief  and  ire  of  infancy  de- 
barred its  jam. 

Edouard  wore  a  puzzled  air,  but  it 


WHITE   LIES. 


73 


vrns  only  for  a  moment ;  the  next  he 
}ii(l  liis  face  in  his  hands,  and  cried  :  — 

"Fool!  fool!  fool!" 

"I  shall  not  contradict  you,"  said 
his  Mentor,  with  iifibcted  politeness. 

"  She  was  my  best  friend." 

"  Who  doubts  it  ?  " 

"  Once  acquainted  with  the  doctor, 
I  could  visit  at  Beaurepaire." 

"Parb/eu!" 

"  She  had  thought  of  a  way  to  rec- 
oncile my  wishes  with  this  terrible 
etiquette  that  reigns  here." 

"  She  thinks  to  more  purpose  than 
you  do,  — 'that  much  is  clear." 

"  Nothing  is  left  now  but  to  ask  her 
pardon,  —  and  to  consent, — I  am 
off." 

"No,  you  are  not,"  and  Jacintha 
laid  a  grasp  of  iron  on  him.  "  Will 
you  be  quiet  ?  —  is  not  one  blunder  a 
(lay  enough?  If  you  go  near  her 
now,  she  will  affront  you,  and  order 
the  doctor  not  to  speak  to  you." 

"O  Jacintha!  your  sex  then  are 
fiends  of  malice  1 " 

"  While  it  lasts.  Luckily  with  us 
nothing  does  last  very  long.  Take 
your  orders  from  me." 

"  Yes,  general,"  said  the  young 
man,  touching  his  hat. 

"  Don't  go  near  her  till  you  have 
made  the  doctor's  acquaintance  ;  that 
is  easily  done.  He  walks  two  hours 
on  the  east  road  every  day,  with  his 
fbet  in  the  puddles  and  his  iiead  in 
the  clouds." 

"  But  how  am  I  to  get  him  out  of 
the  clouds  ? " 

"With  the  first  black  beetle  jou 
me2t." 

"A  black  beetle!" 

"Ay!  catch  her  when  you  can. 
Ilare  her  ready  for  use  in  your  hand- 
kerchief :  pull  a  long  face  :  and  says 
you,  '  Excuse  me,  monsieur,  I  have 
tlic  misfortune  not  to  know  the  Greek 
name  of  this  merchandise  here.'  Say 
that,  and  behold  him  launched.  He 
will  christen  the  beast  in  Hebrew  and 
Latin  as  well  as  Greek,  and  tell  you 
her  history  down  from  the  flood  :  next 
he  will  beg  her  of  you,  and  out  will 
come  a  cork  and  a  ]>iii,  and  l)ehold 


the  creature  impaled.  Thus  it  is  that 
man  loves  beetles.  He  has  a  thousand 
pinned  down  at  home,  — beetles,  but- 
terflies, and  so  forth.  When  I  go  near 
the  lot  with  my  duster  he  trembles  hke 
an  aspen.  I  pretend  to  be  going  to 
clean  them,  but  it  is  to  sec  the  face  he 
makes,  for  even  a  domestic  requires  to 
laugh  :  but  I  never  do  clean  tlicm,  for 
after  all  he  is  more  stupid  than  wicked, 
poor  man  !  I  have  not  therefore  the 
sad  courage  to  annihilate  him." 

"  Let  us  return  to  our  beetle,  — 
what  will  his  tirades  about  the  an- 
tiquity of  the  beetle  advance  me  ?  " 

"  Wretch !  one  begins  about  a 
beetle,  but  one  ends  Heaven  knows 
where."  She  turned  suddenly  grave. 
"  All  this  does  not  prevent  my  pot 
from  being  on  the  fire "  ;  and,  lier 
heart  of  hearts  being  now  in  the 
kitclicn,  Kiviere  saw  it  was  useless  to 
detain  her  body,  so  tlianking  her 
warmly  made  at  once  for  the  east 
road. 

Sure  enough  he  fell  in  with  the 
doctor,  but  not  being  armed  with  an 
insect  he  had  to  take  refuge  in  a 
vegetable, — the  fallen  elm.  He  told 
St.  Aubin  he  had  employed  a  person 
to  keep  his  ears  open,  and,  if  anything 
transpired  at  either  of  the  taverns, 
let  him  know. 

"  You  have  done  well,  monsieur," 
said  the  doctor ;  "  when  the  wine 
goes  in,  the  secrets  ooze  out." 

The  next  time  they  met  Riviere 
was  furnished  with  an  enormous 
chrysalis.  He  had  found  it  in  a 
hedge,  and  was  struck  with  its 
singular  size.  He  produced  it  and 
with  modest  difiidence  and  twink- 
ling eye  sought  information. 

The  doctor's  eye  glittered. 

"  The  death's  head  moth  !  "  he 
cried  with  enthusiasm,  —  "  the  death's 
head  moth  !  a  great  rarity  in  this 
district.     Where  found  you  this  1  " 

Riviere  undertook  to  show  him  the 
place. 

It  was  half  a  league  distant.  Com- 
ing and  going  he  had  time  to  make 
friends  with  St.  Aubin,  and  this  was 
the  easier  thsit  the  old  gentleman,  who 


76 


WHITE   LIES. 


was  a  physiognomist  as  well  as  ologist, 
had  seen  goodness  and  sensibility  in 
Edouard's  face. 

At  the  end  of  the  walk  he  begged 
the  doctor  to  accept  tlie  chrysalis. 
The  doctor  coquetted. 

"  That  would  be  a  robbery.  You 
take  an  interest  in  these  things  your- 
self, —  at  least  I  hope  so  !  " 

The  young  rogue  confessed  modest- 
ly to  the  sentiment  of  entomology,  but 
"  the  government  worked  him  so  hard 
as  to  leave  him  no  hopes  of  shining  in 
so  high  a  science,"  said  he,  sorrow- 
fully. 

The  doctor  pitied  him.  "A  young 
man  of  your  attainments  and  tastes 
to  be  debarred  from  the  everlasting 
secrets  of  Nature,  by  the  fleeting  poli- 
tics of  the  day,  in  which  it  happens 
so  seldom  that  any  great  principle  is 
evolved." 

Riviere  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  Somebody  must  do  the  dirty  work," 
said  he,  chuckling  inwardly. 

Brief:  the  chrysalis  went  to  Beau- 
repairc  in  the  pocket  of  a  grateful 
man. 

"  O  wise  Jacintha  !  "  said  the  lover, 
"I  thought  you  were  humbugging 
me,  but  his  iieart  is  in  these  things. 
We  are  a  league  nearer  one  anotiier 
than  yesterday." 

The  doctor  related  his  conversation 
with  young  Riviere,  on  whom  he  pro- 
nounced higii  encomiums,  levelling 
them  at  Laure  the  detractor  from  his 
merit,  as  if  he  was  planting  so  many 
death-blows.  Her  saucy  eyes  spar- 
kled with  fun  :  you  might  have  lighted 
a  candle  at  one  and  exploded  a  mine 
at  the  other;  but  not  a  syllable  did 
she  utter. 

The  white  flag  waved  from  the 
battlements  of  Bcaurepaire. 

So  (there  's  a  sentence  for  you,  — 
t^iere  's  a  ring,  —  there  's  eartlily 
thunder  !)  the  statesman  dropped  his 
statistics,  and  took  up  his  hat  and 
fled. 

"  Only  to  tell  you  3'ou  are  in  high 
favor,  and  I  think  you  might  risk  a 
call,"  said  Jacintha. 

"  What,  on  the  baroness  ?  " 


"  Why  not  ?  We  shall  be  obliged 
to  let  her  have  a  finger  in  the  pie, 
soon  or  late." 

"  But  I  called  on  her,  and  was  re- 
pulsed with  scorn." 

"  Ha !  ha  !  I  remember  you  came 
to  oflTer  us  your  highness's  patronage ! 
Well,  now  I  will  tell  you  a  better 
game  to  play  at  Beaurepaire  than 
that.  Think  of  some  favor  to  ask  us  : 
come  with  your  hat  off.  We  like  to 
grant  favors  :  we  are  used  to  that. 
We  don't  know  how  to  receive  them." 

"  But  what  favor  can  I  ask  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  anything ;  so  that  you  can 
make  it  sound  a  favor." 

"  I  have  it ;  I  will  ask  leave  to  shoot 
over  Beaurepaire." 

"  Good :  and  that  will  be  an  ex- 
cuse for  giving  me  some  more  birds," 
said  she,  who  had  always  an  eye  to 
the  pot.     "  Come,  —  forward." 

"  What,  now  1  this  very  moment  f 
—  I  was  not  prepared  for  this.  My 
heart  beats  at  the  idea." 

"  Fiddle-de-dee  !  The  baroness  and 
the  doctor  are  on  the  south  terrace. 
But  I  am  not  to  know  that.  I  shall 
show  you  up  to  the  baroness,  and  she 
won't  be  there,  —  you  understand. 
Run  to  the  front  door  ;  I  '11  step 
round  and  let  you  in." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  Madame  the  baroness,  here  is  a 
—  young  monsieur  with  a  request  — 
come  in,  monsieur.  But,  mademoi- 
selle,where  is  madame  the  baroness  1 " 

"  My  mother  is  on  the  terrace, 
Jacintha,"  said  Josephine. 

"  I  will  seek  her ;  be  seated,  mon- 
sieur." 

Edouard  began  to  stammer  apolo- 
gies. 

"  Such  a  trifle  to  trouble  the  baron- 
ess with,  —  and  you,  mesdemoiselles." 

"  You  do  not  trouble  us,  monsieur," 
said  Laure  ;  "  you  see  we  go  on  work- 
ing as  if  nothing  had  happened." 

"  That  is  flattering,  Mademoiselle 
Laure." 


WHITE   LIES. 


77 


"But  we  flutter,"  murmured 
Josephine,  too  low  for  Kiviere  to 
hear ;  then,  when  the  kindly  beauty 
had  softened  down  her  sister's  pi- 
quancy, she  said  aloud  :  — 

"  Well,  monsieur,  I  think  I  can 
answer  for  our  mother  that  she  will 
not  refuse  one  whom  we  must  always 
look  on  as  —  our  friend." 

"  But  not  your  acquaintance,"  said 
Edouard,  tenderly,  though  reproach- 
fully. 

"  Monsieur  then  cannot  forgive  us 
a  repulse  that  cost  us  as  much  as  it 
could  him." 

Here  was  an  unexpected  turn. 
Josephine's  soft  eyes  and  deprecatory 
voice  seemed  to  imply  that  she  miglit 
be  won  to  retract  a  repulse  for  whicii 
she  went  so  near  apologizing. 

"Jacintha  is  right,"  thought  he, 
"  she  is  the  belle  of  belles." 

"  Ah !  mademoiselle,"  said  he, 
warmly,  "how  good  you  are  to  speak 
so  to  me  !  " 

The  door  opened,  and  the  baroness 
came  in  alone. 

Edouard  rose  and  bowed.  The 
baroness  courtesied,  gravely  waved 
him  to  a  seat,  and  sat  down  herself. 

"  They  tell  me,  monsieur,  I  have  it 
in  my  power  to  be  of  some  slight  ser- 
vice to  you,  —  all  the  better." 

"  Yes,  madame ;  but  it  is  a  trifle, 
and  I  am  in  consternation  to  think  I 
should  have  deranged  you." 

"  Nowise,  monsieur ;  I  was  about 
to  come  in  when  Jacintha  informed 
me  of  the  honor  you  had  done  me. 
Then  monsieur  wishes  —  " 

"  Madame,  I  am  a  sportsman.  I 
am  a  neighbor  of  yours,  madame, 
though  I  have  not  the  honor  to  be 
known  to  you." 

"  That  arises  doubtless  from  this, 
monsieur,  that  I  so  seldom  go  into 
the  world,"  said  the  lady,  with  pol- 
ished insincerity. 

"  Well,  madame,  I  am  a  sportsman, 
and  shoot  in  your  neighborhood,  and 
the  birds  fly  over  into  your  ground. 
Now,  madame,  if  I  might  follow  them, 
I  should  often  have  a  good  day's 
sport." 


"  Monsieur,"  said  the  old  lady, 
with  a  faint  smile,  "  follow  those 
birds  wherever  I  have  a  right  to  in- 
vite you.  I  must  at  the  same  time 
inform  you  that  since  France  was  re- 
formed, or,  as  some  think,  deformed, 
it  has  not  been  the  custom  to  give  the 
lady  of  Beaurepaire  any  voice  in  mat- 
ters of  this  kind." 

"  Madame,"  said  Edouard,  "  permit 
me  to  separate  myself  in  your  judg- 
ment from  those  persons." 

"  Monsieur  has  done  that  already." 
said  the  baroness,  with  all  the  grace  of 
the  old  regime. 

Riviere  bowed  Ioav.  His  head  being 
down,  he  cast  a  furtive  glance,  and 
there  was  Josephine  working  with 
that  conscious  complacency  young 
ladies  mildly  beam  with  when  they 
are  working  and  interested  in  a  con- 
versation. Laure,  too,  was  working, 
but  her  head  was  turned  away,  and 
she  was  bursting  with  suppressed 
merriment.  He  felt  uneasy,  —  "  It 
is  me  she  is  quizzing,"  —  and  yet  he 
had  a  nervous  desire  to  laugh  with 
her  ;  so  he  turned  away  hastily. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  baroness, 
languidly,  "  may  I,  without  indiscre- 
tion, ask,  does  it  afford  you  much 
pleasure  to  kill  these  birds  ?  " 

"  Not  too  much,  madame,  to  tell  the 
truth,  —  but  pursuit  of  anything  is 
very  inviting  to   our  nature." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Laure,  dryly,  off  her 
guard. 

"  Did  you  speak,  my  daughter  1  " 
said  the  baroness,  coldly. 

"  No,  my  mother,"  said  Laure,  a 
little  frightened ;  with  all  her  sauce 
she  dare  no  more  put  in  her  word,  un- 
invited, between  her  mother  and  a 
stranger,  than  she  dare  jump  out  of 
the  window. 

"  Besides,"  continued  Riviere, 
"  when  a  man  is  very  hard  worked, 
these  relaxations  —  " 

"  Ah  !  monsieur  is  hard  worked  ! " 
said  the  baroness ;  her  eye  dwelling 
with  a  delicate  irony  on  his  rosy  face. 

He  did  not  perceive  it :  it  was  too 
subtle.  He  answered  with  a  shade  of 
pomp  :  — • 


78 


WHITE  LIES. 


"Like  all  who  serve  the  state." 
"  All !  monsieur  —  serves  —  the  — 
state."     She  seemed  to  conjieal  word 
by   word.      The    young    ladies    ex- 
changed looks  of  dismay. 

"  I  serve  France,"  said  Riviere, 
gently  ;  and  something  in  his  manner 
and  in  his  youth  half  disarmed  the 
old  lady  ;  but  not  quite  :  she  said  as 
she  rose  to  conclude  the  interview  :  — 
"  Well,  monsieur,  (ah  !  you  will 
forgive  me  if  I  cannot  prevail  on  my- 
self to  call  you  citizen,")  — this  with 
ironical  courtesy. 

"  Call  me  what  you  please,  madame, 
except  your  enemy." 

And  he  said  this  with  so  much  feel- 
ing, and  this  submission  of  the  con- 
quering to  the  conquered  party  was  so 
graceful,  that  the  water  came  into 
Josephine's  eyes,  and  Laure's  bosom 
rose  and  fell,  and  her  needle  went 
slower  and  slower. 

"  Citizens  have  done  me  too  much 
ill,"  explained  the  baroness,  with  a 
sombre  look. 

"Mamma,"  said  Josephine,  im- 
ploringly. 

"  They  could  not  have  known  you, 
madame,"  said  Edouard,  "  as  I,  even 
in  this  short  interview  —  forgive  my 
presumption  —  seem  to  do";  and  he 
looked  beseechingly  at  her. 

"  At  least,  monsieur,"  cried  the  old 
lady,  kindly,  and  almost  gayly,  "  it  is 
a  good  beginning,  I"  think."  She 
courtesied,  and  that  meant  "  go."  He 
bowed  to  her  and  the  young  ladies, 
and  retired  demurely  :  one  twinkle  of 
triumph  shot  out  of  his  eye  towards 
La  are. 

The  baroness  turned  to  her  daugh- 
ters. 

"  Have  you  any  idea  who  is  this 
little  Republican  who  has  invented 
the  idea  of  asking  jjermission  to  shoot 
the  partridges  of  another,  and  who, 
be  it  said,  in  passing,  has  the  face  of 
an  angel  ?  " 

They  looked  at  one  another.  Laure 
spoke : — 

"  Yes,  mamma,  we  have  an  idea  — 
well,  he  is,  you  know  —  the  purse." 
The  baroness  flushed. 


"  Ah  !  And  why  did  you  not  tell 
me,  children  ?  " 

"  O  mamma,  it   would  have  been 
so  awkward  for  you,  Ave  thought." 
"  You  are  very  considerate." 
"  And  we  must  have  whispered  it, 
and  that  is  so  ill-bred." 

"  More  so  than  to  giggle  when  I 
receive  a  visitor?"  asked  the  baron- 
ess, keenly. 

"  No,  mamma,"  said  Laure,  humbly, 
and  the  next  moment  she  colored  all 
of  a  sudden,  and  the  next  moment 
after  she  looked  at  her  mother,  and 
her  eyes  began  to  fill. 

"  Let  us  compound,  mademoiselle," 
said  the  baroness.  "  Instead  of  cry- 
ing, because  your  old  mother  speaks 
more  sharply  than  she  means,  whicli 
would  be  absurd  at  your  age,  you 
shall  tell  me  why  you  lauglied." 

"  Agreed,  mamma,"  cried  Madem- 
oiselle April,  vulgarly  called  Laure ; 
"  then  because  —  he  !  he  !  —  he  has 
been  shooting  over  your  ground  for 
two  months  past  without  leave." 
"  Oh !  impossible." 
"  I  liave  heard  the  guns,  and  seen 
him  and  Dard  doing  it.  And  now  he 
has  come  to  ask  for  leave  with  the 
face  of  an  angel,  as  you  remarked  — 
he  !  he !  —  and  oh !  mamma,  you  com- 
plimented him  —  he !  —  and  he  ab- 
sorbed the  praise  with  such  an  in- 
genuous gravity,  —  ha!  ha!  ha! 
After  all  it  is  but  reversing  the  period 
at  which  such  applications  are  made 
by  ordinary  sportsmen,  —  after  in- 
stead of  belbre.  What  does  that  mat- 
ter ?  —  time  flies  so,  —  ha !  ha  !  ha ! 
ha!  ha!" 

"  Humph  !  "  said  the  baroness,  and 
seemed  very  thoughtful,  and  mighty 
little  amused. 

Edouard  went  home  exulting :  he 
had  inserted  the  wedge. 

He  little  thought  that  Mademoiselle 
April  had  sacrificed  him  to  a  laugh, 
still  less  that  a  council  of  war  had 
been  convened  and  was  even  now 
sitting  on  him.  Had  he  known  this, 
the  deluded  youth  that  went  along 
exulting  would  have  gone  trembling, 
and  there   he  would  iiave  been  mis- 


WHITE   LIES. 


79 


takon  again.  Yet  there  are  two  hun- 
dred thousand  people  that  beheve  a 
gypsy  girl  can  predict  the  future. 

She  cannot,  —  the  wisest  of  us  can- 
not, —  angels  cannot,  —  Satan  can- 
not, though  fifty  thousand  of  my 
Yankee  friends  have  assumed  as  a 
self-evident  proposition  that  he  can. 

The  baroness  sent  for  St.  Aubin  to 
ask  his  advice  as  to  the  best  way  of 
keeping  the  citizen  at  a  distance. 

The  doctor  listened  with  great  in- 
terest, and  often  smiled  as  the  baroness 
put  her  portions  of  the  puzzle  to  his 
portions  of  it,  and  the  whole  enigma 
lay  revealed. 

"  Aha ! "  said  he,  at  last,  "  the 
young  rogue  has  taken  me  by  my 
foible ;  but  I  will  be  revenged." 

"  The  question  is  not  your  revenge, 
but  what  /  am  to  do." 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  doctor,  "  you  re- 
quire my  advice  what  vou  should 
do  r ' 

"  Certainly  I  do." 
"  Humph  !  "   said  the  doctor,  and 
reflected  profoundly  :    "  then  my  ad- 
vice is,  —  let  them  alone." 

"Let  them  alone,"  replied  the 
baroness,  sharplv,  —  "that  is  easilv 
said." 

"  It  is  as  easily  done,"  replied  he, 
quietly. 

The  baroness  stared,  and  a  faint 
flush  rose  in  her  delicate  cheek,  at 
her  friend's  cool  way  of  disposing  of  a 
question  that  so  embarrassed  her. 

"  Trust  to  Nature  !  "  said  the 
doctor,  benignantly. 

"Trust  to  Nature!"  screamed 
the  old  aristocrat,  with  horror  and  dis- 
may in  her  face, — "  is  the  man  mad  V 
"  No,  madame ;  nor  is  Nature  : 
trust  to  her.  She  will  bring  the 
young  lady  and  the  young  citizen 
together  quite  quickly  enough  with- 
out our  inflaming  them  by  oppo- 
sition." 

"  You  make  me  regret,  sir,  that  I 
disturbed  your  graver  studies  for  a 
matter  so  little  serious  as  this,"  was 
the  bitter  answer  veiled  in  tones  of 
perfect  politeness. 

"  My  friend,  if  you  wished  for  the 


sort  of  advice  that  political  prejudice 
or  other  blinding  influence  gives,  I 
was  indeed  the  wrmig  person  to  send 
for." 

"But,"  continued  the  lady,  haugh- 
tily, not  deigning  to  notice  his  last 
sentence,  "  you  will  make  my  apolo- 
gies to  the  spiders,  to  whom  and 
their  works  you  are,  I  conclude,  about 
to  return." 

The  doctor  rose  at  this  piece  of 
polite  insolence. 

"  Since  you  permit  me,  madame. 
I  shall  find  Nature  in  spiders,  and 
admire  her  :  but  not  more  than  1  do 
in  tlie  young  lady  and  the  young 
citizen  who  are  now  submitting  to  her 
sweetest  law." 

"  Enough  !  monsieur,  — enough  !  " 

"As  I  myself  in  former  times, 
when  youth  —  " 

"  As  that  must  be  very  long  ago, 
and  as  among  the  results  marriage 
has  not  been  one,  perhaps  it  would  be 
as  well  to  spare  me  the  recital,"  said 
the  baroness,  too  spiteful  to  let  slip 
this  chance  of  a  slap,  fair  or  unfair. 

"  True,  madame.  Well,  then,  let  us 
take  an  unimpeachable  example,  —  as 
yourself,  —  who  have  been  married,  — 
in  your  younger  days,  —  not  deeming 
the  birds  in  spring  unworthy  imita- 
tion —  deigned  —  " 

"  Monsieur,  our  conference  is  end- 
ed." 

The  doctor  went  ofi"  with  a  mali- 
cious grin  ;  much  he  cared  for  his  old 
friend's  grand  airs  and  biting  tongue. 
The  only  creature  he  stood  in  awe  of 
was  Jacintha. 

"  0  that  duster  !  " 

""What  is  the  hardest  substance  ou 
earth  1 " 

"  Adamant,  stupid." 

"  No." 

"  Well,  then,  steel  1 " 

"  No." 

"  Platinum  ?  " 

"  No.  Do  you  give  it  up  ?  —  do 
you  ■?  —  do  you  1  —  do  you  'i  —  ice." 

"  Ice  1  " 

"  Moral  ice,  not  physical,  —  not 
solidified    water,    but    solidified    cti- 


80 


WHITE  LIES. 


qucttc, —  congcnlcd  essence  of  grand- 
inaniraa,  —  custom,  ceremony,  pro- 
priety ^vhen  down  at  32  Fahrenheit. 

"  How  many  have  jumped  as  high 
as  ihcy  couki,  and  come  down  as 
liard  as  they  could,  on  purpose  to  break 
this  ice,  —  and  been  l)roken  1  You 
can  try  it,  mcsdamos,  but  not  by  my 
advice. 

"  By  a  just  bakuicc  of  qualities, 
this  ice,  once  broken,  is  the  hardest 
thing  in  the  world  to  mend. 

"  Human  ice,  once  liquefied,  cannot 
he  congealed  back  to  its  original 
smoothness,  strength,  and  slijjperi- 
ness. 

"  Nature  glides  in  and  unrecog- 
nized, unthankcd,  keeps  the  thawed 
from  fi-cczing  again,  llio  frozen  from 
petrifying." 

"When  the  ladies  of  Beaurepairc 
darted  from  tlieir  family  oak,  and 
caught  lliviere  in  his  felonious  act, 
they  broke  the  ice. 

Josephine's  attempt  to  repair  it 
on  the  rpot  was  laudable  but  use- 
Jess. 

It  was  not  in  nature  that  this  young 
man  and  these  two  young  women 
could  ever  be  again  the  strangers  they 
were  before. 

Whenever  they  met  in  the  park, 
I'.c  had  alway;!  a  \vord  ready,  and  tliey 
answered.  It  was  but  a  sly  word  or 
two  ;  but  these  Avords  were  like  little 
sticks  judiciously  inserted  as  a  fire 
burns  up. 

Factotum  Dard  co-operated. 

So  powerful  was  Factotum's  desti- 
ny, that  even  when  he  was  laitl  up  in 
his  arm-chair  another  little  odd  job 
fell  npon  him ;  he  became  a  go- 
between,  though  unable  to  stir. 

Lovers  met —  to  nirrse  him. 

First  would  come  the  two  ladies,  or 
sometimes  only  Laure,  and  curious 
enough  in  less  than  ten  minutes 
Edouard  was  sure  to  arrive,  very  hot ; 
it  happened  so,  —  how,  I  have  no 
idea ;  indeed  it  would  be  idle  to  at- 
tempt to  account  for  all  the  strange 
coincidences  that  occur.  Let  me 
rather  mentio!i  here,  apologizing  for 
its     complete    irrelevance,    that    the 


young  man  had  been  much  puzuled 
wliat  to  do  with  the  twenty  pieces  of 
gold. 

"  They  arc  sacred,"  said  he. 

But  eventually  he  laid  them  out, 
and  ten  more,  in  a  new  telescope  with 
an  immensely  powerful  lens. 

Science,  by  its  mouthpiece  St  Au- 
bin,  highly  approved  the  purchase, 
and  argued  great  things  for  a  young 
man  who  turned  his  lodgings  into  an 
obsei'vatory. 

"Also  a  politician  who  looks  heav- 
enwards is  not  of  every-day  occur- 
rence," said  the  dry  doctor. 

One  day  that  both  young  ladies  and 
Riviere  met  round  black-foot*  Dard, 
that  worthy,  who  had  hitherto  signal- 
ized himself  by  the  depth  of  his  silent 
reflections,  and  liy  listening  intently 
to  good  books  as  read  by  Josephine, 
and  by  swearing  at  his  toe,  rather  than 
by  any  prolonged  conversational  ef- 
forts, suddenly  annoimced  his  desire 
to  put  a  few  queries. 

The  auditory  prepared  to  sustain 
the  shock  of  them. 

"  It  is  about  the  lives  of  the  suffer- 
ing saints  I  have  been  reading  to  con- 
sole him,"  thought  Josephine. 

"  What  I  want  to  know  is,  how  it 
happens  that  you  aristocrats  come  to 
see  me  so  often  1  " 

"  0  Dard,"  said  Josephine,  "  don't 
you  know  ?  " 

"No!  I  don't." 

"  Don't  you  see  it  is  the  least  we 
can  do  :  only  think  of  the  number  of 
little  odd  jobs  you  have  done  for  us." 

"  O,  as  to  that,  yes,  I  have,  by  St. 
Denis  I  have." 

"  I  have  myself  seen  you  work  in 
the  garden,  drive  the  cow,  chop  wood, 
alas!  poor  lad,  once  too  often,  and 
take  tish  for  us  out  of  the  pond, 
and  —  " 

"  Stop,  mademoiselle,  it  is  no  nse 
your  trying  to  count  tiiem,  Htaven 
has  given  no  man  fingers  enough  to 
count  my  little  odd  jobs,  mucii  less  a 
woman,"  added  he,  getting  confused 
between  the  jobs  and  tlie  fingers. 

*  A  Scotch  word  for  a  gc-between ;  excuse 
the  heartU'33  pun. 


WHITE  LIES. 


81 


"  Well,  then,  you  see  you  agree  with 
us.  You  have  every  claim  on  our 
gratitude." 

"  O,  then,  it  is  tlie  jobs  I  did  up  at 
Beaurcpaire  that  gain  me  these  vis- 
its." 

"  Yes !  but  above  all  the  good  heart 
that  prompted  them." 

Dard  was  silent  a  moment :  then 
suddenly  bursting  out  into  an  oft'- 
hand,  reckless,  jaunty  tone  :  "  Oh  ! 
as  to  that,"  said  he,  "  I  am  not  one 
of  your  fellows  that  are  afraid  of 
work.  A  few  little  jobs  more  or  less 
make  no  difference  to  me.  '  Too 
much  of  one  thing  is  good  for  noth- 
ing,' as  the  saying  goes,  —  and 
'  changes  are  lightsome.'  "  His  next 
observation  betrayed  more  candor 
than  tact.  "  It  was  to  please  Jacintlia 
I  did  them,  not  out  of  regard  for  you, 
though." 

"  What  have  we  to  do  with  that  ?  " 
said  Laure,  sharply  :  "  we  benefited  by 
them  :  and  now  you  sliall  benefit  by 
them.  Ah,  Dard  !  if  we  were  but  a 
little  richer,  we  would  make  you  so 
comfortable." 

"  I  wish  you  were  tlie  richest  citi- 
zens in  France,"  said  he,  bluntly. 

Edouard  walked  to  the  gate  of  the 
Pleasance  with  the  ladies,  and  talked 
nineteen  to  the  dozen,  to  leave  no 
room  for  them  to  say  Adieu  and  so 
get  rid  of  him.  They  did  not  hate 
him  for  not  giving  them  that  chance. 

He  gave  the  ice  no  time  to  freeze 
again. 

And  all  this  time  he  was  making 
friends  with  Doctor  St.  Aubin  ;  and 
as  things  will  turn  in  this  world,  or 
rather  twist,  the  way  least  expected, 
he  got  to  like  the  doctor  and  greatly 
to  admire  him.  He  was  a  mine  of 
knowledge,  and  his  tastes  were  al- 
most as  wide  as  his  information.  He 
relished  Nature  more  perhaps  than 
anything  else;  but  he  was  equally 
ready  with  poetry,  with  history,  and, 
what  charmed  young  Edouard,  with 
politics  of  the  highest  order. 

In  their  graver  converse  he  made 
the  young  man  see   how   great  and 
rare  a  thing  is  a  statesman,  how  com- 
4# 


mon  and  small  a  thing  is  a  place- 
man. He  poured  examples  drawn 
from  many  nations  and  many  epochs, 
and  sounded  trumpet  notes  of  great 
state  policy,  and  the  patriotism  it  is 
founded  on  ;  and  on  these  occasions 
he  would  rise  into  real  eloquence,  and 
fire  the  young  heart  of  Citizen  Riv- 
iere. 

In  short  they  became  friends,  and 
Riviere  no  sooner  felt  they  were 
friends  than  his  conscience  smote 
him,  and  he  said  to  himself:  "I  will 
tell  him  all:  hs  is  a  good  man,  —  a 
wise  man,  —  a  just  man.  I'm  not 
ashamed  of  my  love.  I  will  entreat 
him  to  be  on  my  side." 

"  My  friend,"  he  began,  "  I  have  a 
confession  to  make." 

He  looked  at  his  friend  :  the  doctor 
twinkled  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Perhaps  it  will  not  take  you  alto- 
gether by  surprise." 

"  We  shall  see." 

Then  Edouard  told  his  story  as 
people  tell  their  own  stories.  How  he 
had  come  to  this  district  a  stanch 
Republican.  How  he  had  seen  two 
young  ladies  walking  so  calm,  gentle, 
and  sad,  always  in  black.  How  their 
beauty  and  grace  had  made  them  in- 
teresting, but  their  misfortunes  had 
made  them  sacred.  How  after  many 
meetings  a  new  feature  had  arisen 
in  their  intercourse;  Mademoiselle 
Laure  had  smiled  on  him, -as  earth,  he 
thought,  had  never  smiled  before. 
(The  doctor  grinned  here,  as  many  an 
old  fellow  has  grinned  on  like  occa- 
sion, mindful  of  the  days  when  he  was 
a  young  fool  and  did  not  know  it ; 
and  now  he  is  an  old  one,  and  does  n't 
know  it.)  This  had  gone  through  his 
heart.  Then,  suppressing  Jacintha,  he 
told  his  friend  he  had  learned  from  a 
sure  source  the  fiimily  was  in  bitter 
poverty.  The  doctor  sighed.  The  ar- 
dent desire  to  save  them,  coupled  with 
the  difficulty,  and  their  inaccessibility, 
had  almost  driven  him  mad. 

"  I  lost  all  my  color,"  cried  he,  half 
angrily.  Then  he  told  the  story  of  tlie 
purse,  and  how  happy  he  had  felt 
when  he  dro;jped  it  and  stole  away, 


82 


WHITE  LIES. 


and  happier  when  he  heard  it  had 
been  found,  and  how,  after  all,  that 
attempt  to  save  them  had  failed ; 
"  and  now,  monsieur,"  he  said,  "  my 
heart  often  aches,  and  I  burn  and 
freeze  by  turns.  I  watch  hours  and 
hours  for  the  chance  of  a  word  or  a 
look.  If  I  fail,  I  am  miserable  all 
that  day  ;  if  I  succeed,  I  am  the  hap- 
piest man  in  France  for  half  an  hour. 
Then  I  go  back  to  my  little  room.  It 
looks  like  a  prison  after  that.  The 
sun  seems  to  have  left  the  earth,  and 
taken  hope  with  him.  O  my  friend, 
nmch  as  I  love  her,  there  are  moments 
I  wish  I  had  never  seen  her.  She  I 
love  will  be  my  ruin.  But  I  shall 
love  her  all  the  same;  it  is  not  lier 
fault.  I  am  in  a  fever  night  and  day. 
My  duties,  once  so  pleasant,  arc 
tasteless  now.  Ah !  monsieur,  pity 
me  and  advise  me  !  " 

"  I  will ;  tell  me  first,  are  you  con- 
scious of  a  slight  tremor  on  the  skin 
when  you  wake  in  the  morning  ? " 

"  No." 

"  Occasional  twitches,  mostly  in  the 
region  of  the  thigh  ?  " 

"  No  !  —  yes  !  —  how  could  you 
know  that?  but  such  trifles  are  not 
worth  our  attention." 

"  Diagnostics  are  not  worth  our 
attention ! " 

"  No,  no  !  it 's  my  heart !  —  it 's  my 
heart !  " 

"  My  young  friend,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, "  you  have  done  well  to  come  to 
me.  You  must  do  one  of  two  things  : 
the  choice  I  leave  to  you." 

"  Thank  you,  my  friend  !  " 

"  You  must  either  leave  this  district 
to-morrow  — " 

"  I  would  rather  leave  the  earth  1 " 

"Or  —  " 

"Ah!  or—" 

"  You  must  go  with  me  to  the  bar- 
oness, and,  backed  by  me,  a-;k  leave 
to  court  her  daughter  openly  like  a 
man." 

"  Backed  by  you  !  am  I  so  fortu- 
nate ?  are  you  on  my  side  ?  " 

"  Firm  as  a  rock  ! "  shouted  the 
doctor ;  "  and  what  is  more  I  have 
been  your  secret  ally,  a  traitor  in  the 


camp  Beaurepairc,  this  three  weeks; 
also  I  have  watched  your  little  ma 
nuiuvres  witli  me,  Citizen  Cherubin, 
with  no  less  interest  and  curiosity  than 
I  watch  a  young  bird  building  its  first 
nest,  or  a  silkworm  spinning  her  silk, 
or  a  spider  her  web,  or  any  other  cun- 
ning inspired  by  great  Nature.  O, 
you  need  not  hide  your  head,  fox  with 
the  face  of  the  Madonna  :  I  awaited 
this  revelation  from  you  :  I  knew  it 
would  come.  I  am  glad  it  is  come  so 
soon ;  a  want  of  candor  is  unmanly, 
and  a  great  fault  ia  youth;  you  shall 
now  learn  how  wise  it  is  to  be  candid. 
Now  tell  me,  Edouard  —  " 

"  Ah !  thank  you,  monsieur !  " 

"  Your  parents  !  —  would  they  con- 
sent to  a  match  between  you  and  a 
young  lady  of  rank,  but  no  wealth  f  " 

"  Monsieur,  I  am  not  so  fortunate 
as  to  have  any  parents,  —  unless  you 
will  let  me  look  on  you  as  one." 

"  This,  dear  child  !  —  I  consent,  — 
my  snuft-box,  —  good !  left  it  at 
home." 

"  I  have  an  uncle  ;  but  you  know 
one  is  not  bound  to  obey  an  uncle,  ex- 
cept perhaps  —  " 

"  When  his  wishes  are  the  echo  of 
our  own,  —  then  we  are." 

"  Besides,  my  uncle  loves  me,  —  at 
least,  I  think  so." 

"  Oh  !  impossible.  You  must  be 
mistaken." 

"  Monsieur  is  too  good.  I  do  not 
please  all  as  I  have,  by  good  fortune, 
pleased  you,  my  friend.  But,  in  fact, 
my  uncle  has  no  aversion  towards  the 
aristocracy." 

"  All  the  better.  Well,  my  young 
lover,  I  am  satisfied.  All  tlie  battle, 
then,  will  be  at  Beaurepaire.  Have 
you  courage  ?  " 

"  I  am  full  of  it ;  only  sometimes  it 
is  the  courage  of  hope,  sometimes  of 
despair." 

"  Call  on  me  to-morrow  with  the 
courage  of  hope." 

"  What,  at  the  chateau  !  "  cried  the 
young  man,  all  in  a  flutter. 

"  Ay,  at  the  impregnable  castle  it- 
self, where,  preposterous  as  it  may 
appear,   the    right  of  receiving    m.y 


WHITE  LIES. 


83 


visitors  is  conceded  me.  Were  it  not, 
I  should  take  it." 

"  It  does  me  good  to  hear  a  man 
talii  so  boldly  about  the  chateau." 

"  I  shall  present  you  to  ray  friend 
the  baroness." 

"  0  Heavens  !  " 

"  She  will  receive  you  as  a  glacier 
the  Polar  Star." 

"I  feel  she  will.  I  shiver  in  ad- 
vance." 

"  And,  deaf  to  me,  your  advocate, 
in  other  words,  to  reason  and  good 
sense  personified,  ahem  !  she  will  yield 
to  you.  My  vanity  will  be  shocked, 
and  behold  us  enemies  for  life." 

Riviere  shook  his  head  despond- 
ingly.  "  Deaf  to  you,  yield  to  me,  — 
how  can  this  be  1 " 

"  Because  she  is  the  female  of  our 
species,  —  a  thing  to  be  persuaded, 
not  convinced ;  trust  to  me,  —  have 
faith  in  Nature,  —  and  come  at  twelve 
o'clock." 

St.  Aubin,  on  reaching  the  chateau, 
found  the  dun  pony  standing  at  the 
door.  He  hurried  into  the  dining- 
room,  and  there  were  the  notary  and 
the  young  ladies,  all  apparently  in 
good  spirits.  The  notary  had  suc- 
ceeded. He  showed  the  doctor,  as  he 
had  already  showed  the  ladies,  a  penal 
contract  by  which  Bonard  bound  him- 
self not  to  sell  the  estate,  or  assign 
the  loan,  to  any  one. 

The  doctor  was  enchanted,  shook 
the  notary  again  and  again  by  tlic 
hand,  and  took  him  up  stairs  to  the 
baroness. 

"  There  is  no  further  necessity  for 
concealment,"  said  he,  "  and  it  would 
be  most  unjust  not  to  give  her  an 
opportunity  of  thanking  you." 

The  baroness  looked  rather  cold 
and  foi-mal  at  sight  of  the  notary, 
but  her  manner  soon  changed.  Al- 
though the  doctor  underrated  the 
danger  the  chateau  had  just  escaped, 
yet  at  the  bare  mention  she  turned  as 
pale  as  death;  both  her  daughters  and 
the  doctor  observed  this. 

"  Strange,"  said  slie,  "  I  had  a  pre- 
sentiment." 


When  she  found  the  danger  was 
past,  a  deep  sigh  showed  how  the 
mere  relation  had  taken  away  her 
breath. 

"  Heaven  reward  you,  monsieur," 
cried  she ;  "  the  last  time  you  were 
here,  you  gave  me  advice  which 
offended  me,  probably  because  it  was 
wise  advice.     Accept  my  excuses." 

"  They  arc  unnecessary,  madame. 
I  could  not  but  respect  your  pre- 
judices, though  I  suffered  by  them." 

"  In  future,  monsieur,  count  on 
more  candor,  and  perhaps  more  hu- 
mility ;  that  is,  should  my  impetuosity 
not  deter  you  from  ever  wasting  good 
advice  on  me  again." 

"  On  the  contrary,  madame,  if  you 
could  give  mc  an  hour  to-morrow,  I 
should  be  glad  to  show  you  a  means 
by  which  the  estate  and  chateau  can 
be  placed  above  all  risk,  not  only 
from  a  single  creditor,  but  from  the 
whole  body,  were  they  to  act  hostilely 
and  in  concert." 

"  Hear  !  hear  !  "  cried  the  doctor. 

"  1  shall  be  at  your  disposal." 

"  At  this  interview,  I  request  that 
the  heiress  of  Beaurepaire  may  be 
also  present." 

"  What  necessity  for  that  1  "  in- 
quired the  baroness,  sharply. 

"  0,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  under- 
stahd  ;  the  next  heir's  formal  consent 
is  required  to  arrangements  made  for 
the  benefit  of  the  life-holder.  Am  I 
mad  ?  to  talk  of  the  next  heir.  AVhy, 
Josephine  is  the  present  proprietor." 

"  I ! "  cried  Josephine,  with  aston- 
ishment, not  unmixed  with  horror. 

The  notary's  lip  curled  with  con- 
tempt at  the  little  party  that  had  not 
even  asked  themselves  to  whom  the 
property  belonged. 

"  Mademoiselle  de  Beaurepaire  will 
be  present,"  said  the  baroness. 

A  little  before  twelve  o'clock,  Ed- 
ouard  Riviere  stood  at  the  door,  with 
something  like  an  ice  javelin  running 
the  length  of  his  backbone.  The 
baroness  was  in  his  eyes  the  most 
awful  human  creature  going.  He 
would  have  feared  an  interview  with 


84 


WHITE   LIES. 


the  First  Consul  one  shade  less,  or 
half  a  shade. 

Jacintha,  smiling  and  winking, 
showed  him  into  St.  Aubin's  study. 
The  doctor  received  him  warmly,  and, 
after  a  few  words  of  kind  encouraj^e- 
ment,  committed  him  to  the  beetles, 
while  he  went  to  intercede  witii  the 
baroness. 

The  baroness  stopped  him  cunning- 
ly at  the  first  word. 

"  Ah !  my  good  doctor,  spare  me 
this  topic  for  once.  The  most  dis- 
agreeable draught  ceases  to  be  poig- 
nant when  administered  every  day  for 
three  weeks." 

"  If  you  and  I  only  were  concerned 
in  it,  I  would  prescribe  it  no  longer, 
but  those  we  love  are  deeply  interested 
in  it." 

"  Josephine,  my  daughter,"  cried 
the  baroness,  "  are  you  deeply  inter- 
ested in  marrying  Citizen  Riviere,  — 
with  a  face  like  a  girl  ?  " 

"  No  !  mamma!" 

"  We  must  not  ask  Laure,  I  think, 
—  she  is  rather  too  young  for  sucii 
topics." 

"Not  a  bit  too  young,  mamma,  if 
you  please ;  but  I  lack  the  inclina- 
tion." 

"  In  short,  somehow  or  another, 
you  can  both  dispense  with  the  doc- 
tor's friend  for  a  husband.  Let  him 
go  then.  Now,  if  the  doctor  had  pro- 
posed himself,  we  should  all  three  be 
pulling  caps  for  him." 

A  little  peal  of  laughter,  like  as  of 
silver  bells,  rang  out  at  the  doctor's 
expense. 

He  never  moved  a  muscle. 

"Permit  me  to  recall  to  you  the 
general  substance  of  the  reasons  I 
have  urged  for  admitting-  the  visits  of 
my  friend  Monsieur  Edouard  Riviere 
at  this  house." 

"A  sort  o( precis,  or  recapitulation," 
remarked  the  baroness,  dryly. 

"  Exactly." 

"  Such  as  precedes  the  final  dismis- 
sal of  an  exhausted  subject." 

"  Or  makes  the  intelligent  hearer 
at  l:i-;t  comprehend  and  retain  it. 

"  First,  and  above  all,  this  young 


man  is  good  and  virtuous ;  then  he 
loves  with  delicacy,  —  with  rare  deli- 
cacy ;  am  I  right,  mesdemoiselles  1 
Well  —  I  await  your  answer  —  Cow- 
ards ! !  —  and  with  ardor.  He  burns 
to  do  good  to  you  all.  Now,  let  us 
soberly  inquire,  is  the  family  in  a 
position  to  scorn  such  a  godsend  ? 
Some  fine  da}',  when  the  chateau  is 
sold  over  our  heads,  shall  we  not  feel 
too  late  that  imprudence  is  guilt  in 
those  who  have  the  charge  of  beloved 
ones  as  well  as  of  themselves.  Look 
facts  in  the  face,  madame ;  comprehend 
to-day  what  all  the  rest  of  Fi-ance  has 
long  comprehended,  that  the  Bourbons 
are  snuffed  out.  They  were  little  men, 
whom  accident  placed  high,  and  acci- 
dent could  lay  low.  This  Bonaparte's 
finger  is  thicker  than  their  loins. 
Well,  if  you  can  really  doubt  this, 
lean  on  your  rotten  reeds ;  but  not 
with  all  your  weight ;  marry  one 
daughter  to  a  Royalist,  but  one  into 
the  rising  dynasty  ;  then  we  shall  be 
safe,  come  what  may,  and  this  ancient 
but  tottering  house  will  not  fall  in  our 
day,  or  by  any  fault  of  ours." 

"  This  may  be  prudence,"  said  the 
baroness.  "I  think  it  is;  but  it  is 
prudence  so  hard,  worldly,  and  cyni- 
cal, that,  had  I  known  it  was  cominfr, 
I  think  I  should  have  sent  that  child 
out  of  the  room." 

Laure  cast  a  look  of  defiance  at 
Josephine  for  not  being  called  a  child 
and  she  was. 

St.  Aubin  winced,  but  kept  his 
temper. 

"  Show  me,  then,"  said  he,  "  that 
you  can  rise  to  things  less  cynical 
and  worldly  than  prudence.  Look 
at  the  young  man's  virtue, — his 
character." 

"  What  do  we  know  of  his  char- 
acter? " 

"  What  do  we  know  of  his  char- 
acter ?  Are  we  blind,  then,  or  can  we 
see  virtue  only  when  it  comes  to  us  on 
paper  ?  Is  there  nothing  in  our  own 
souls  that  recognizes  great  virtues  at 
sight,  and  cries,  '  Hail !  brother '  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  there  is  !  "  cried  Laure, 
her  eyes  flaming. 


WHITE  LIES. 


85 


"Besilent,  my  child." 

"Needs  there  a  long  string  of  scrib- 
blers to  tell  us  what  actions  are  good 
and  beautiful,  and  beyond  the  little 
vulgar  and  the  great  vulgar  to  do  or 
to  admire  1 

"  What  do  you  know  of  his  char- 
acter ?  You  know  that  in  a  world 
which  vaunts  much  and  does  nothing 
but  egoism,  sometimes  bare  egoism, 
sometimes  gilt  egoism,  but  always 
egoism,  this  poor  boy  has  loved  you 
all  as  angels  love  and  as  mortals  don't, 
and  like  angels  has  done  you  good  un- 
seen. You  know  nothing  ?  You  know 
he  is  not  rich,  yet  consecrated  half  his 
income  to  you,  without  hope  even  of 
thanks.  Is  it  his  fault  he  was  found 
out  ?  No !  my  young  ladies  there 
were  too  cunning  for  him,  or  you 
would  never  have  known  your  angel 
friend.  Read  now  those  great  Mes- 
sieurs Corneille  and  Racine  for  a  love 
so  innocent,  so  delicate,  so  like  a  wo- 
man's, so  like  an  angel's.  Search  their 
immortal  pages  for  it,  —  and  find  it  not. 

"  Arc  you  deaf  to  sentiment,  blind 
to  beauty  of  person  and  the  soul  ? 
Then  be  shrewd,  be  prudent,  and  be 
friends  with  the  rising  young  citizen. 
I  have  measured  him, — he  is  no 
dwarf.  He  was  first  at  the  Ecole 
Politechniqm,  —  he  won't  be  last  in 
France.  Are  you  too  noble  to  be 
prudent  ?  then  be  noble  enough  to 
hold  out  the  hand  to  the  noble  and 
good  and  beautiful  for  their  own 
sakes,  unless,  after  twenty  years' 
friendship,  I  am  anything  to  j-ou  ; 
in  that  case,  O,  welcome  them  for 
mine." 

The  b  ironcss  hung  her  head,  but 
made  no  answer. 

"  My  mother,"  said  Josephine,  im- 
ploringly, "  the  dear  doctor  is  in 
earnest.  I  fear  he  may  doubt  our 
love  for  him  if  you  refuse  him.  He 
never  spoke  so  loud  before.  JMamma, 
dear  mamma !  " 

"  What  is  it  you  wish  mc  to  do, 
monsieur"?  " 

"  Only  to  receive  my  friend,  and  let 
him  plead  his  own  cause." 

"  I  consent.     I  am  like  Josephine. 


I  do  not  love  to  have  an  old  friend 
bawling  at  me." 

"  Thank  you,  ladies,  for  your  con- 
sideration for  my  feelings  —  and  your 
ears." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  To  fetch  him  !  " 

"  What,  to-day  1  " 

"  This  minute." 

"  My  daughters,  this  was  a  trap. 
Where  is  he  ?  In  the  Pleasance  1  " 
asked  she,  ironically,  taking  for  grant- 
ed he  was  much  farther  off. 

"  No  ;  in  my  room  :  trembling  at 
the  ordeal  before  him." 

"  It  is  not  too  late  to  retreat ;  better 
so  than  give  me  the  pain  of  dismissing 
him." 

"  In  one  minute  he  will  be  with 
you.  Break  his  heart  if  you  are 
quite  sure  there  is  any  real  neces- 
sity ;  but  at  least  do  it  gently." 

"  That  is  understood.  My  child, 
take  ii  turn  on  the  terrace."  Laure 
went  out,  after  shaking  her  snowball 
at  Josephine  for  being  allowed  to  stay 
and  she  not. 

"  0  my  dear  friend,  what  a  sur- 
prise I  have  endured  !  what  a  time 
you  have  been  !  " 

"  I  have  had  a  tough  battle." 

"  But  you  have  won  ?  your  reasons 
have  prevailed  ?  " 

"  My  reasons  ?  — straws  !  One  of 
them  calls  them  so  openly,  I  forget 
which.  No!  my  reasons  fell  to  the 
earth  unheeded ;  did  n't  I  tell  you 
they  would "?  " 

'■'  O  Heaven !  " 

"  But,  luckily,  in  reasoning  I  shout- 
ed. Then  that  angel  Josephine  said, 
'  O  mv  mother,  we  cannot  refuse 
the  doctor  ;  he  has  shouted,  —  he  who 
never  shouts.'  New  definition  of  rea- 
son, —  an  affair  of  the  lungs.  Now 
go  and  show  them  your  pretty  face." 

"  Yes  !  0  my  "friend,  what  shall 
I  say?  what  shall  I  say?" 

"  "What  matters  it  what  you  say  ? 
Wisdom  won't  help  you,  folly  won't 
hurt  you  ;  still,  by  way  of  being  ex- 
tremely cautious,  I  would  n't  utter 
too  much  good  sense.     Turn  two  bc^ 


86 


WHITE  LIES. 


seeching  eyes  upon  her;  add  the  lan- 
guage (if  your  face  to  the  logic  of  my 
lungs,  and  win.     Come." 

"Madame,  this  is  Monsieur  Edouard 
Riviere,  my  friend." 

A  stately  reverence  from  the  baron- 
ess. 

"  May  my  esteem  and  his  own 
merits  procure  him  at  your  hands  fa- 
vorable treatment,  and  should  you 
find  him  timid  and  flurried,  and  little 
able  to  address  you  fluently,  allow,  I 
pray  you,  for  his  youth,  for  the  mod- 
esty that  accompanies  merit,  and  for 
the  agitation  of  his  heart  at  such  a 
moment.     I  leave  you." 

Edouai-d,  trembling  and  confused, 
stammered,  scarcely  above  a  whis- 
per:— 

"  0  madamc,  I  feel  I  shall  need  all 
my  friend's  excuses  " ;  and  hero  his 
■whisper  died  out  altogether,  and  his 
tongue  seemed  to  glue  itself  to  some- 
thing and  lose  the  power  of  motion. 

"  Calm  yourself,  monsieur :  I  listen 
to  you." 

"  Madame,  I  do  not  deserve  her,  — 
but  I  love  her.  My  position  is  not 
what  she  merits, — but  I  love  her." 

"How  can  that  be,  monsieur?  — 
you  do  not  know  her." 

"  Ah  yes,  madame !  —  I  know  her  : 
there  are  souls  that  speak  through  the 
countenance :  I  have  lived  on  hers 
too  long  not  to  know  her.  Say  rather 
you  do  not  know  me,  —  you  may 
well  hesitate  to  allow  one  unknown 
to  come  near  so  great  a  treasure. 
There  I  am  sure  is  the  true  obstacle. 
Well,  madame,  as  my  merits  arc  small, 
let  my  request  be  moderate  :  give  me 
a  trial.  Let  me  visit  you, — I  am 
not  old  enough  to  be  a  hypocrite  :  if  I 
am  undeserving,  such  an  eye  as  yours 
will  soon  detect  mc  :  you  will  dismiss 
me,  and  I  shall  go  at  a  word,  for  I  am 
proud  too,  thougti  I  have  so  little  to 
be  proud  of." 

"  You  do  not  appear  to  see,  mon- 
sieur, that  this  little  experiment  will 
compromise  my  daughter." 

"  Not  at  all,  madame  ;  I  promise  it 
shall  not ;  I  swear  I  will  not  presume 


on  any  opportunity  your  goodness 
shall  give  me.  Consider,  madame, 
it  is  only  here  that  I  can  make  you 
acquainted  with  my  character :  you 
never  leave  the  chateau,  madame  :  let 
me  come  to  the  chateau  now  and  then, 
oh,  pray  let  me  come,  madame  the 
baroness ! "  and  he  turned  his  be- 
seeching eyes  on  her. 

"  Was  ever  anything  so  unreason- 
able ?  " 

"Ah!  madame,  the  more  I  shall 
bless  you  if  you  will  be  so  generous 
as  not  to  refuse  me." 

"But  if  it  is  niv  duty  to  refuse 
you  ?  " 

"  Then  I  shall  die,  madame,  that  is 
all." 

"  Childishness  ! " 

"  And  you  will  be  sorry." 

"  You  think  so  !  " 

"  0  yes !  for  madame  has  a  good 
heart,  —  only  she  cannot  see,  and  will 
not  believe,  h-h-how  1 1-love." 

"  Child  !  now  if  you  cry,  I  will  send 
you  away  at  once.  One  would  say  I 
am  very  cruel,  but  I  am  not,  —  I  am 
only  in  my  senses,  and  this  child  is 
not.  In  the  first  place,  these  things 
are  not  done  in  this  way.  The  ap- 
proaches are  made,  not  by  the  young 
madman  himself,  but  by  his  parents  : 
these  open  the  ti'caty  with  the  parent 
or  parents  of  the  lady." 

"  But,  madame,  I  am  not  so  fortu- 
nate as  to  have  a  parent." 

"  What!  no  father?" 

"  No,  madame.  I  cannot  even  re- 
member my  father." 

"No  mother?  " 

"  Madame,  she  died  five  years 
ago.  Mademoiselle  Josephine  can 
tell  you  what  I  lost  that  day.  If  she 
was  alive  she  would  be  about  your 
age.  Ah,  no,  madame  !  you  may  be 
sure  she  is  gone  from  me,  or  I  should 
not  kneel  before  you  thus  friendless. 
Slie  would  come  to  you  and  say, 
'  IMadame,  you  arc  a  mother  as  I  am, 
—  feel  for  me,  —  my  son  loves  your 
daughter ;  he  will  die  if  you  refuse 
him.  Have  pity  on  me  and  on  my 
son.  I  know  liini,  —  he  is  not 
unworthy.'      O   Mademoiselle   Jose- 


WHITE  LIES. 


87 


phine,  speak  a  word  for  me,  I  im- 
plore you  ;  for  me  who,  less  happy 
than  you,  have  no  mother, — for  me 
who  speak  so  ill,  and  have  so  much 
need  to  speak  well.  I  shall  be  re- 
jected —  by  my  own  fault.  Can 
one  have  so  much  to  say  and  say  so 
little  ?  Can  the  heart  be  so  full  and 
the  tongue  so  powerless  ?  My  moth- 
er, why  did  you  leave  me  ?  " 

The  baroness  rose. 

She  turned  her  head  away. 

Riviere  awaited  his  doom  trem- 
bling with  agitation,  and  wishing  he 
had  said  anything  but  what  he  had 
said  ;  he  saw,  too,  a  little  tremor  pass 
over  the  baroness,  but  did  not  know 
how  to  interpret  that. 

"  The  emotion  such  words  cause 
me  —  no,  I  cannot.  My  child,  you 
shall  leave  me  now.  I  will  send  you 
my  answer  by  letter." 

These  last  words  were  spoken  in 
almost  a  coaxing  tone,  in  a  much 
kinder  tone  than  she  had  ever  used 
before,  and  Edouard's  hopes  rose. 

"  O  yes,  madame,"  said  he,  inno- 
cently, "  I  prefer  it  so  ;  thank  you, 
madame,  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart,  thank  you  !  " 

He  paused  in  the  middle  of  his 
gratitude,  for  to  his  surprise  the  baron- 
ess's eyes  suddenly  became  fixed  with 
horror  and  astonishment.  He  wheeled 
round  to  see  what  direful  object  had  so 
transfixed  her,  and  caught  Josephine 
l)ehind  him,  but  at  some  distance, 
looking  at  her  mother  with  an  im- 
ploring face,  a  face  to  melt  a  tigress, 
and  both  her  white  hands  clasped  to- 
gether in  mute  supplication,  and  her 
cheeks  wet. 

When  she  saw  herself  detected, 
she  attempted  no  further  secrecy,  but 
came  forward,  her  hands  still  clasped. 

"  Ah,  no,  my  mother !  "  Then  she 
turned  to  Edouard.  "  Do  you  not  see 
she  is  going  to  refuse  you  by  letter  be- 
cause she  has  not  the  courage  to  look 
in  yotir  sweet  face  and  strike  you  ?  " 

"  Ah,  traitress  !  traitress  !  "  shrieked 
the  baroness. 

Edouard  sighed. 

Josephine  stood  supplicating. 


"  A  new  light  strikes  rac,"  cried 
the  old  lady  :  "  what  a  horror !  "Why, 
Josephine,  —  my  daughter,  —  is  it 
possible  you  arc  interested  —  to  such 
a  degree  —  in  this  —  " 

Josephine  lowered  her  lovely  head. 

"  Yes,  my  mother,"  said  she,  just 
above  a  whisper. 

The  baroness  groaned. 

Edouard,  to  comfort  her,  began  :  — 

"  But,  madame,  it  is  not  —  " 

"  Ah !  hold  your  tongue,"  cried 
Josephine,  hastily,  in  an  accent  of 
terror. 

The  mystified  one  held  his  tongue. 

"  She  is  right,  monsieur,"  said  the 
baroness,  dryly  :  "  leave  her  alone, 
she  will  have  more  influence  with  me 
than  jou.  In  a  word,  monsieur,  I  am 
about  to  consult  my  daughter  in  this 
wise  and  well-ordered  affair.  Be 
pleased  to  excuse  us  a  few  minutes." 

"  Certainly,  madame."  He  took 
his  hat. 

"  I  will  send  for  you.  Meantime 
go  and  play  with  that  other  child  on 
the  terrace,"  said  she,  spitefully  ;  for 
all  her  short-lived  feeling  in  his  fa- 
vor was  gone  now. 

Monsieur  Edouard  bowed  respect- 
fully, and  submitted  demurely  to  his 
penance. 

"  All  is  ended,"  said  the  baroness  ; 
"  the  sentiments  that  have  corrupted 
the  nation  have  ended  by  penetrating 
into  my  family,  — my  eldest  daughter 
flings  herself  at  a  man's  head,  — 
again  it  is  not  a  man,  but  a  boy,  with 
the  face  of  an  angel." 

Josephine  glided  to  her  mother's 
side,  and  sank  on  her  knees. 

"  My  mother,  have  some  little  con- 
fidence in  your  Josephine  !  Am  I  so 
very  foolish  f  Am  I  so  very  wicked  1 " 
And  she  laid  her  cheek  against  her 
mother's. 

The  old  lady  kissed  her. 

"  Thou  shalt  have  him,  —  thou  siialt 
have  him  !  my  well-beloved  :  have  no 
fear  :  thy  mother  loves  thee  too  well  to 
vex  thee."  But  at  this  the  old  lady 
began  to  sob  and  to  cry  :  "  They  are 
taking  away  my  children  !  they  are 
taking  away  my  children  !  "     And  to 


88 


WHITE  LIES. 


the  doctor,  who  came  in  full  of  curios- 
ity, she  cried  out :  "  Ah  !  you  are 
come,  you !  —  enjoy  then  your  tri- 
umph, for  you  have  won  !  " 

"  All  the  better !  "  cried  the  doctor, 

"  Nevertheless,  it  was  a  sorry  tri- 
umph to  come  to  a  poor  old  woman 
from  whom  they  had  taken  all  except 
her  daughters,  and  to  rob  her  of  them, 
too,— ah!" 

The  doctor  hung  his  head  :  then  he 
stepped  quickly  up  to  her  with  great 
concern,  and  took  her  hand. 

"  My  dear,  dear  friend,"  he  cried, 
"  the  laws  of  Nature  are  inevitable. 
Sooner  or  later  the  young  birds  must 
leave  the  parent's  nest." 

"  Nature  is  very  cruel,  — oh  !  oh  !  " 

"  She  but  seems  so,  because  she  is 
unchangeable.  There  is  another  law, 
to  which  you  and  I  must  both  yield 
erelong." 

"  Yes,  my  friend." 

"  Shall  we  go,  and  leave  these  tender 
ones  to  choose  mates  and  protectors  for 
tliemselves,  out  of  a  world  of  wolves 
in  sheep's  clothing  ?  Shall  we  refuse 
them,  while  we  live,  the  light  of  our 
age  and  wisdom  in  this  the  act  that  is 
to  color  their  whole  lives  ?  " 

"  You  have  always  reason  on  your 
side,  you.  'Well !  send  for  the  young 
man.  He  is  good  :  he  will  forgive  me 
if,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  should  be  some- 
times rude  to  him  :  he  will  understand 
that  to  my  daughter  he  is  a  lover,  but 
to  me  a  burglar,  —  a  highway  robber, 

—  poor  child  !  He  is  very  handsome 
all  the  same.  Next,  he  has  no  moth- 
er, —  if  I  was  not  so  wicked  I  should 
try  and  supply  Iier  place,  — you  see  I 
am  reasonable.  Tell  me  now  how 
long  it  will  be  before  you  come  to  me 
for  Laure  ?  0,  do  not  be  afraid  :  I 
will  let  her  go  too.  I  will  not  give  all 
this  trouble  a  second  time,  —  the  first 
struggle  it  is  that  tears  us.  Yet  I 
knew  it  must  come  some  day.  But  I 
did  not  expect  it  so  soon.     No  matter 

—  I  will  be  reasonable —  to-day  is  the 
fourth  of  November.  I  shall  remem- 
ber the  fourth  of  November,  —  go  to. 
All  I  ask  is,  when  they  are  both  gone, 


and  the  house  is  quite,  quite  deso- 
late, then  suffer  me  to  die,  —  when  all 
I  love  is  gone  from  me.     Oh !  oh  !  oh ! 

oh  !  oh ! " 

"  Monsieur  Perrin,  the  notary,  is  be- 
low and  would  speak  to  madame," 
said  Jacintha,  at  the  door. 

"  Ah  !  I  remember,  away  with  our 
tears,  my  friends :  here  comes  one 
who  would  not  understand  them.  He 
would  say,  '  What,  have  they  all  the 
toothache  at  once,  in  this  house?'" 

St.  Aubin,  after  the  first  compli- 
ments, retired  ;  and  the  notary,  the 
baroness,  and  Josephine  seated  them- 
selves in  a  triangle. 

He  began  by  confessing  to  them  that 
he  had  not  overcome  the  refractory 
creditor  without  much  trouble ;  and 
that  he  had  since  learned  there  was 
another,  a  larger  creditor,  likely  to 
press  for  payment  or  for  sale  of  the  es- 
tate. The  baroness  was  greatly  agi- 
tated by  this  communication :  the 
notary  remained  cool  as  a  cucumber, 
and  keenly  observant. 

"  Bonard,"  said  he,  "  lias  piit  this  in- 
to their  heads ;  otherwise  I  believe  they 
never  would  have  thought  of  it." 

He  went  on  to  say  all  this  had 
caused  him  grave  reflections. 

"  It  seems,"  said  he,  with  cool  can- 
dor, "  a  sad  pity  that  the  estate  should 
pass  from  a  family  that  has  held  it 
since  the  days  of  Charlemagne." 

"  Now  God  forbid  !  "  cried  the  bar- 
oness, lifting  her  eyes  and  her  quiver- 
ing hands  to  Heaven. 

Now  the  notary  held  the  Republi- 
can creed  in  all  its  branches. 

"  Providence,  madame,  does  not  in- 
terfere in  matters  of  business,"  said 
he.  "  Nothing  but  money  can  save 
the  estate.  Let  us  then  look  at  things 
solid,  lias  any  means  occurred  to 
you  of  raising  money  to  pay  off  these 
encumbrances  1  " 

"  No.  What  means  can  there  be  ? 
The  estate  is  mortgaged  to  its  full 
value  :  so  they  all  say." 

"  And  they  say  true  !  "  put  in  tlio 
notary,  quickly. 

"  There  is  no  hope." 


WHITE   LIKS. 


89 


"  Do  not  distress  yourself,  raadamc  : 
I  am  here  !  !  " 

"  Ah,  my  good  friend,  may  Heav- 
en reward  you." 

"  Madame,  up  to  the  present  time 
I  have  no  complaint  to  make  of  this 
same  Heaven.  By  the  hy,  permit 
me  to  show  you  that  I  am  on  the  rise  : 
here,  mademoiselle,  is  a  gimcrack 
they  have  given  me  "  ;  and  he  unbut- 
toned his  overcoat,  and  showed  them 
a  piece  of  tricolored  ribbon  and  a 
clasp.  ■"  As  for  me,  I  look  to  the 
solid,  I  care  little  for  these  things," 
said  he,  secretly  bursting  with  grati- 
fied vanity ;  "  but  the  world  is  dazzled 
by  them.  However,  I  can  show  you 
something  better."  He  took  out  a 
letter.  "  This  is  from  the  Minister 
of  the  Interior  to  a  client  of  mine  : 
it  amounts  to  a  promise  I  shall  be  the 
next  prefect,  and  the  present  prefect 

—  I  am  happy  to  say — is  on  his 
i!eath-bcd.  Thus,  madame,  your  hum- 
ble servant  in  a  few  short  montlis  will 
be  notary  no  longer,  but  prefect ;  I 
shall  then  sell  my  otSce  of  notary,  —  it 
is  worth  one  hundred  thousand  francs, 

—  and  I  flatter  myself  when  I  am  a 
prefect  you  will  not  blush  to  own  me." 

"  Then  as  now,  monsieur,"  said 
the  baroness,  politely,  "  we  shall  rec- 
ognize your  merit.     But  —  " 

"  I  understand,  madame  :  like  me, 
you  look  to  what  is  solid.  Thus  then 
it  is  :  I  have  money." 

"  Ah  !  all  the  better  for  you." 

"  I  have  a  good  deal  of  money. 
But  it  is  dispersed  in  a  great  many 
small,  though  jirotitable  investments. 
Now  to  call  it  in  suddenly  would  en- 
tail some  loss." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it." 

"  Never  mind,  madame,  if  you  and 
my  young  lady  there  have  ever  so  lit- 
tle of  that  friendly  feeling  towards 
me  of  which  I  have  so  much  towards 
you,  all  my  investments  shall  be 
called  in.  Six  months  will  do  it ; 
two  thirds  of  your  creditors  shall  be 
paid  off  at  once.  A  single  party  on 
whom  I  can  depend,  one  of  my  cli- 
ents, who  dares  not  quarrel  with  me, 
will    advance   the  remaining    third ; 


and  so  the  estate  will  be  safe.  In  an- 
otiier  si.K  months  even  that  diminished 
debt  shall  be  liquidated,  and  Beau- 
repaire  chateau,  park,  estate,  and 
grounds,  down  to  the  old  oak-tree, 
shall  be  as  free  as  air  ;  and  no  power 
shall  alienate  them  from  you,  madem- 
oiselle, and  from  the  heirs  of  your 
body." 

The  baroness  clasped  her  hands  in 
ecstasy. 

"  But  what  are  we  to  do  for  this, 
monsieur  1  "  inquired  Josephine,  calm- 
ly, "  for  it  seems  to  me  that  it  can 
only  be  cfTeried  by  great  sacrifices  on 
your  part.  " 

"  I  thank  you,  mademoiselle,  for 
your  penetration  in  seeing  that  I 
must  make  sacrifices.  I  would  never 
have  told  you,  hut  you  have  seen  it, 
—  and  I  do  not  regret  that  you  have 
seen  it.  Madame,  mademoiselle,  those 
sacrifices  appear  little  to  me, — will 
seem  nothing, — will  never  be  men- 
tioned, or  even  alluded  to,  after  this 
day,  if  you,  on  your  part,  will  lay  me 
under  a  far  heavier  obligation, —  if 
in  short,"  —  here  the  contemner  of 
things  unsubstantial  reopened  his 
coat,  and  brought  his  ribbon  to  light 
again, — "if  you,  madame,  avill  ac- 
cept  ME    FOK  YOUR   aON-IN-LAW, 

IF  YOU,  MADEMOISELLE,  WILL  TAKE 
ME    FOR    YOUR    HUSBAND !  " 

The  baroness  and  her  daughter 
looked  at  one  another  in  silence. 

"  Is  it  a  jest  i  ''  inquired  the  former 
of  the  latter. 

"  Can  you  think  so,  my  mother  ? 
Answer  Monsieur  PeiTin.  Above  all, 
my  mother,  remember  he  has  just 
done  us  a  kind  office." 

"  I  shall  remember  it.  Jlonsieur, 
permit  me  to  regret  that,  having  lately 
won  our  gratitude  and  esteem,  you 
have  taken  this  way  of  modifying  those 
feelings.  But  after  all,"  she  added 
with  gentle  courtesy,  "  we  may  well 
put  your  good  deeds  against  this  — 
this  error  in  judgment.  The  balance 
is  in  your  favor  still,  provided  you 
never  return  to  this  topic.  Come,  is 
it  agreed  1  " 


90 


WHITE  LIES. 


The  baroness's  manner  was  full  of 
tact,  and  tlie  latter  sentences  were 
said  with  an  open  kindliness  of  man- 
ner. 

There  was  nothing  to  prevent  Per- 
rin  from  dropping  the  subject  and  re- 
maining good  friends.  A  gentleman 
or  a  lover  would  have  so  done. 

Monsieur  Perrin  was  neither.  He 
said  in  rather  a  threatening  tone : 
"  You  refuse  me  then,  madame  ! !  " 

The  tone  and  the  words  were  each 
singly  too  much  for  the  baroness's 
pride.  She  answered  coldly  but  civ- 
illy: — 

"  I  do  not  refuse  you.  I  do  not 
take  an  affront  into  consideration." 

"  Be  calm,  my  mother,"  said  Jose- 
phine ;  "  no  affront  was  intended." 

"  Ah  !  here  is  one  that  is  more 
reasonable,"  cried  Perrin. 

"  There  are  men,"  continued  Jose- 
pliine,  without  noticing  him,  "  who 
look  to  but  one  thing,  interest.  It 
was  an  offer  made  politely  in  the  way 
of  business ;  decline  it  in  the  same 
spirit,  my  mother ;  that  is  what  you 
have  to  do." 

"  Monsieur,  you  hear  what  ma- 
demoiselle  says  ? " 

"  I  am  not  deaf,  madame." 

"  She  carries  politeness  along  way. 
After  all,  it  is  a  good  fault.  Well, 
monsieur,  I  need  not  answer  you 
since  Mademoiselle  de  Beaurepaire 
has  answered  you  ;  but  I  detain  you 
no  longer." 

Strictly  a  weasel  has  no  business 
with  the  temper  of  a  tiger,  but  this 
one  had,  and  the  long  vindictiveness 
of  a  Corsican. 

"  Ah  !  my  little  lady,  you  turn  me 
out  of  the  house,  do  you  ?  "  cried  he, 
grinding  his  teeth. 

"  Turn  him  outof  the  house  !  what 
a  phrase !  My  daughter,  where  has 
this  man  lived  ?  " 

"  To  the  Devil  with  phrases.  You 
turn  me  out !  A  man,  my  little  la- 
dies, whom  none  ever  yet  insulted 
without  repenting  it,  and  repenting  in 
vain.  You  are  under  obligations  to 
ine,  iuid  you  think  to  turn  me  out ! 
You  are  at  my  mercy,  and  you  think 


I  will  let  you  turn  me  to  your  door ! 
Say  again  to  me,  eitlier  with  or  with- 
out phrases,  '  Sortez  !  '  and  by  all  the 
devils  in  less  than  a  mouth  I  will 
stand  here,  here,  here,  and  say  to  you, 
'  Sortez  r" 

"  Ah  !  —  mon  Dieu !  mon  Dteu !  " 

"  I  will  say,  '  Beaurepaire  is  mine  ! 
Begone  from  it ! '  " 

When  he  uttered  these  terrible 
words,  each  of  which  was  a  blow  with 
a  bludgeon  to  the  baroness,  the  old 
lady,  whose  courage  was  not  equal 
to  her  spirit,  shrank  over  the  side 
of  her  arm-chair  and  cried  piteously  : 
"  He  threatens  me  !  he  threatens 
me  !  I  am  frightened !  "  and  put  up 
lier  trembling  hands,  so  suggestive 
was  the  notary's  eloquence  of  phys- 
ical violence.  Then  his  brutality 
received  an  unexpected  check.  Im- 
agine that  a  sparrow-hawk  had  seized 
a  trembling  pigeon,  and  that  a  royal 
fiilcon  swooped,  and,  Avith  one  light- 
ning-like stroke  of  body  and  wing, 
buffeted  him  away,  and  there  he  was 
on  his  back,  gaping  and  glaring  and 
grasping  at  nothing  with  his  claws. 
So  swift  and  irresistible,  but  far  more 
terrible  and  majestic,  Josephine  de 
Beaurepaire  came  from  her  chair 
with  one  gesture  of  her  body  be- 
tween her  mother  and  the  notary, 
who  was  advancing  on  her  with 
arms  folded  in  a  brutal,  menacing 
way,  —  not  the  Josephine  we  have 
seen  her,  the  calm,  languid  beauty, 
but  the  demoiselle  De  Beaurepaire, 
her  great  heart  on  fire,  —  her  blood 
up,  —  not  her  own  only,  but  all  the 
blood  of  all  the  De  Beaurepaires,  — 
pale  as  ashes  with  great  wrath,  her 
purple  eyes  flaring,  and  her  whole 
panther-like  body  ready  either  to 
spring  or  strike. 

"  Slave !  you  dare  to  insult  her, 
and  before  me  !  Arriere,  miserable  !  * 
or  I  soil  my  hand  with  your  face ! " 
And  her  hand  was  up  with  the  word, 
up,  up,  higher  it  seemed  than  ever 
a  hand  was  lifted  before.  And  if 
he  had  iiesitated  one  moment,  I  lie- 
lieve  it  would  have  come  down  ;  and 
*   "Back  I   wretch  !" 


WHITE   LIES. 


91 


if  it  bad  lie  would  have  gone  to  her 
feet  before  it :  not  under  its  weight, 
—  the  lightning  is  not  heavy,  —  but 
under  tlie  soul  that  would  have  struck 
with  it :  but  there  was  no  need ;  the 
towering  thi'eat  and  the  flaming  eye 
and  the  swift  rush  buffeted  the  caitiff 
away :  he  recoiled  three  steps  and 
nearly  fell  down.  She  followed  him 
as  he  went,  strong  in  that  moment 
as  Hercules,  beautiful  and  terrible 
as  Michael  driving  Satan.  He  dared 
not,  or  rather  he  could  not,  stand  be- 
foi'e  her ;  he  wreathed  and  cowered 
and  recoiled  all  down  the  room,  while 
she  marched  upon  him.  Then  the 
driven  serpent  hissed  as  it  wriggled 
away. 

"  For  all  tins  she  too  shall  be  turned 
out  of  Beaurepaire,  not  like  me,  but 
forever.  I  swear  it,  parole  de  Per- 
rin." 

"  She  shall  never  be  turned  out.  I 
gwear  it,  foi  de  De  Beaurepaire." 

"  You  too,  daughter  of  Sa —  " 

"  Tais  toi,  et  sors  it  Vlnstant  meine  — 
Lache ! " * 

The  old  lady  moaning  and  trem- 
bling and  all  but  fointing  in  her  chair  : 
the  young  noble,  like  a  destroying  an- 
gel, hand  in  air,  and  great  eye  scorch- 
ing and  withering;  and  the  caitiff 
wriggling  out  at  the  door,  wincing  with 
body  and  head,  his  knees  knocking, 
his  heart  panting  yet  raging,  his  teeth 
gnashing,  his  cheek  livid,  his  eye 
gleaming  with  the  fire  of  hell. 


CHAPTEE    XII. 

"  Mademoiselle,  your  mother  has 
sent  me  here  to  play  with  you." 

"  Monsieur !  " 

"  It  is  true.  She  said,  '  Go  and 
play  with  that  other  child.'  " 

"  Mesdames  our  mothers  take  liber- 
ties which  we  do  not  put  up  with  from 
a  stranger." 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  felt  like  you  at 
such  a  term  being  applied  to  me,  but 

* "  Hold  your  tong;ue  !  and  begone  this 
very  moment,  coward  and  slave  !  " 


it  is  sweet  to  share  anything  with  you, 
even  an  affront,  a  stigma." 

"  So  they  sent  you  to  amuse  me  "?  " 
asked  the  beauty,  royally. 

"  It  appears  so." 

"Whether  I  like  or  not?" 

"  No,  mademoiselle,  at  a  word  from 
you  I  was  to  leave  you  :  that  was  un- 
derstood." 

"  Go  away." 

"I  go." 

He  retired. 

"  Monsieur  Riviere,"  called  the  lady 
to  him,  in  a  calm,  friendly  tone  as  if 
nothing  had  happened. 

He  came  back. 

"  How  thoughtless  you  are  :  you 
ai'c  going  away  without  telling  me 
what  you  have  been  saying  to  my 
mother  about  me  behind  my  back." 

"  I  never  mentioned  you,  madem- 
oiselle ! " 

"Oh!  oh!  all  the  better  !  " 

Then  this  child  told  that  child  all 
he  had  said  to  the  baroness,  and  her 
replies  ;  and  this  child  blushed  in 
telling  it  and  looked  timidly  every 
now  and  then  to  see  how  that  capri- 
cious child  took  it :  and  that  capricious 
child  wore  a  lofty,  contemplative  air, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  am  listening 
out  of  politeness  to  a  dry  abstract  of 
certain  matters  purely -speculative 
wherein  I  have  no  personal  interest." 
Certain  blushes  that  came  and  went 
gave  a  charming  incongruity  to  the 
performance,  and  might  have  made  an 
aged  by-stander  laugh. 

When  he  came  to  tell  Josephine's 
interference,  and  how  her  mother 
tliought  it  was  she  he  loved  ;  and  how 
Josephine,  to  his  great  surprise,  had 
favored  the  delusion ;  and  how,  on 
this,  the  tide  had  turned  directly  in  his 
favor,  our  young  actress  being  of  an 
impetuous  nature  and  off  her  guard  a 
moment,  burst  out,  "Ah,  I  recognize 
you  there,  my  good  Josephine  !  "  but 
she  had  no  sooner  said  this  than  she 
lowered  her  eyes  and  her  cheek  burned. 

lliviere  was  mystified. 

"  But,  mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "  do 
pray  explain  to  me,  —  can  I  be  mista- 
ken after  all  ?  —  is  she  —  ?  " 


92 


WHITE  LIES. 


"Is  she  what?  " 

"  I  mean  does  she  —  ?  " 

"  Does  she  what  ?  " 

"  You  know  what  I  mean." 

"  No,  I  do  not :  how  should  I  ? 
Tlie  vanity  of  these  children  !  Now, 
if  she  did,  would  she  have  confessed 
before  you  that  she  did  ?  " 

"  Well  I  am  astonished  at  you, 
Mademoiselle  Laure ;  Jacintha  then 
is  right ;  you  acknowledge  that  every- 
thing your  sex  says  is  a  falsehood,  — 
O  fie  !  " 

"  No  !  not  everything,"  replied 
Laure,  with  naivete  unparalleled, 
"  only  certain  things  !  don't  tease  me," 
cried  she,  with  sudden  small  violence; 
"  of  this  be  sure,  that  Josepliine  was 
a  good  friend  to  you,  not  because  slic 
loves  children,  but  because  she  is  not 
one  of  us  at  all,  but  an  angel  and 
loves  everybody,  —  even  monsieur." 

"  This  is  what  I  think,"  said 
Edouard,  gravely.  "  The  baroness 
fancies  you  a  child,  —  you  are  woman 
enough  to  puzzle  me,  mademoiselle." 

"  That  may  easily  be." 

"  And  Mademoiselle  Josepliine 
thought  I  should  not  be  allowed  to 
come  into  the  house  at  all,  if,  at  that 
critical  moment,  another  prejudice 
came  in  the  way." 

"  What  jM-ejudice  ?  " 

"  That  you  arc  too  young  to  love." 

"That  is  no  prejudice, — it  is  a 
fact.  I  am,  monsieur,  —  I  am  much 
too  young." 

"  No  !  I  was  confused.  I  mean  too 
young  to  be  loved." 

"  0,  I  am  not  too  young  for  that, 
—  not  a  bit  too  young." 

"  And  so  the  angel  Josephine  tem- 
porized, out  of  pity  to  me  :  that  is  my 
solution,  and,  —  ah!  Heaven  bless 
her ! " 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  say  your  solution 
is  a  very  absurd  one." 

"  It  is  the  true  one." 

"  Are  you  sure  1  " 

'•  Positive." 

"  Then  it  is  no  use  my  contradicting 
you." 

"  Not  the  least." 

"  Then  I  shall  not  contradict  you." 


"Ah,  well  !  mademoiselle  angel, 
perhaps  my  turn  will  come,"  said  the 
young  man,  liis  lips  trembling. 
"  Won't  I  cut  myself  in  pieces  for 
you    at  a  word,  that  is  all." 

"  I  like  you  better  when  you  talk 
so." 

"  Mademoiselle  Laure  1 " 

"  Monsieur  Edouard  ■?  " 

"  If  you  will  come  to  where  the 
great  oak-tree  stands. " 

"  To  the  Pleasance,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  0,  the  Pleasance,  is  it  ?  What 
lovely  names  everything  has  here  ! 
Well,  if  you  will  come  into  the  Pleas- 
ance, I  will  make  you  a  drawing  of 
that  dear  old  tree  I  love  so." 

"  And  what  rigiit  have  you  to  love 
it  ?  —  it  is  not  yours  :  it  is  ours.  You 
are  always  loving  something  you  have 
no  business  to." 

"  I  love  things  that  one  can't  help 
loving,  —  is  that  a  crime  1  " 

"  He  can't  help  loving  a  tree,  tender 
nature ! " 

"  No,  I  can't  help  loving  a  tree  out 
of  which  you  introduced  yourself  to 
me." 

"  Insolent !  Well,  draw  it  with  two 
ladies  flying  out  and  a  boy  rooted 
with  terror." 

"  There  is  no  need.  Tiiat  scene  is 
more  than  drawn,  it  is  engraved,  on 
all  our  memories  forever  !  " 

"  Not  on  mine  !  not  on  mine  !  Oh  ! 
how  terrified  you  were,  —  ha  !  ha  !  — 
and  how  terrified  we  should  liave  been 
if  you  had  not.  Listen  :  once  upon  a 
time  —  don't  be  alarmed  :  it  was 
after  Noah  —  a  frightened  hare  ran 
by  a  pond  :  the  frogs  splashed  into 
the  water  in  terror.  She  said,  '  Ah 
ha !  there  are  then  those  I  frighten  in 
my  turn  :  I  am  the  thunderbolt  of 
war.'  Excuse  my  quoting  La  Fon- 
taine :  I  am  not  in  '  Charles  the 
Twelfth  of  Sweden  '  yet.  I  am  but 
a  child." 

"And  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  when 
you  grow  up  you  Avill  be  too  much  for 
me,  that  is  evident.  Come,  then, 
mademoiselle  the  quizzer." 

"  Monsieur,  shall  I  make  you  a 
confession  ?     You  will  not  be  angry  ■ 


WHITE   LIES. 


93 


I  could   not  support   your  displeas- 


ure. 


"  I  am  afraid  you  could  :  so  I  will 
not  try  you." 

"  Then  I  liave  a  strange  inclination 
to  walk  up  and  down  this  terrace 
whilst  you  draw  that  tree  in  the  Fleas- 


ance. 


"  Resist  that  inclination  :  perhaps 
it  will  fly  from  you." 

"  No  !  you  fly  from  me  and  draw. 
I  will  rejoin  you  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  Thank  you  !  Not  so  stupid  !  " 

"  Do  you  doubt  my  word,  sir  ?  " 
asked  she,  haughtily. 

"  Heaven  forbid,  mademoiselle  ! 
only  I  did  not  see  at  first  that  it  was 
a  serious  promise  you  are  doing  mc 
the  honor  to  make  me.     I  go." 

He  went,  and  placed  himself  on  the 
west  side  of  the  oak  and  took  out  his 
sketch-book,  and  worked  zealously 
and  rapidly.  He  had  done  the  out- 
lines of  the  tree  and  was  finishing  in 
detail  a  part  of  the  huge  trunk,  when 
his  eyes  were  suddenly  dazzled  :  in  the 
middle  of  the  rugged  bark,  deformed 
here  and  there  with  great  wart-like 
bosses,  and  wrinkled,  seamed,  and 
ploughed  all  over  with  age,  burst  a  bit 
of  variegated  color  :  bright  as  a  poppy 
on  a  dungeon  wall,  it  glowed  and 
glittered  out  through  a  large  hole  in 
the  brown  bark  ;  it  was  Laurc's  face 
peeping.  To  our  young  lover's  eye 
how  divine  it  shone  !  None  of  the 
half-tints  of  common  flesh  were  there, 
but  a  thing  all  rose,  lily,  sapphire,  and 
soul.  His  pencil  dropped,  his  mouth 
opened,  he  was  downright  dazzled  by 
the  glowing,  bewitching  face,  spar- 
kling with  fun  in  the  gaunt  tree.  Tell 
me,  ladies,  did  she  know  the  value  of 
that  sombre  frame  to  her  bright- 
ness 1  Oh  !  no,  —  she  was  only  a 
child  !!'.!!! 

The  moment  she  found  herself  de- 
tected, the  gaunt  old  tree  rang  musi- 
cal with  a  crystal  laugh,  and  out 
came  the  arch-dryad. 

"  I  have  been  there  all  the  time. 
How  solemn  you  looked  !  — ha  !  ha  ! 
Now  for  the  result  of  such  profound 
studv." 


He  showed  her  his  work  ;  she  al- 
tered her  tone. 

"  Oh  !  how  clever,"  she  cried,  "and 
how  rapid  !  What  a  facility  you 
have  !  Monsieur  is  an  artist,"  said  she, 
gravely  ;  "  I  will  be  more  respectful," 
and  she  dropped  him  a  low  courtesy. 
"Mind  you  promised  it  to  me,"  she 
added,  sharply. 

"  You  willaccept  it,  then  ?  " 

"  That  I  will :  it  will  be  worth 
having :  I  never  reckoned  on  that, 
—  hence  my  nonchalance.  Finish  it 
directly,"  cried  this  peremptory  young 
person. 

"  First  I  must  troulile  you  to  stand 
out  there  near  the  tree." 

"What  for?" 

"  Because  I  want  a  contrast.  The 
tree  is  a  picture  of  Age  and  gradual 
decay  ;  by  its  side,  then,  I  must  place 
a  personification  of  Youth  and  grow- 
ing loveliness." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  made  a 
sort  of  pirouette,  and  went  where  she 
was  bid,  and  stood  there  with  her 
back  to  the  artist. 

"But  that  will  not  do,  mademoi- 
selle ;  you  must  turn  round." 

"  0,  very  well."  And  when  she 
came  round  ho  saw  her  color  was 
high.     Flattery  is  sweet. 

This  child  of  nature  was  pleased, 
and  ashamed  that  it  should  be  seen 
that  she  was  pleased,  —  and  so  he 
drew  her ;  and  kept  looking  off  the 
paper  at  her,  and  had  a  right  in  his 
character  of  artist  to  look  her  full  in 
the  face,  and  he  did  so  with  long,  lin- 
gering glances  beginning  severe  and 
business-like,  and  ending  tender,  that 
she,  poor  girl,  hardly  knew  which  way 
to  look,  not  to  be  scorched  up  by  his 
eye  like  a  tender  flower,  or  blandly 
absorbed  like  the  pearly  dew.  Ah  ! 
happy  hour !  ah !  happy  days  of 
youth,  and  innocence,  and  first  love ! 

"  Here  is  my  sister.  Ah  !. something 
is  the  matter  !  " 

Josephine  came  towards  them,  pale 
and  panting. 

"  O  my  children,"  she  cried,  and 
could  not  speak  a  moment  for  agitation. 


04 


WHITE  LIES. 


They  came  loimd  her  in  the  great- 
est concern. 

"A  great  misfortune  has  fallen  on 
us,  and  I  am  the  cause." 

"  O  Heaven  !  " 

"  Wc  have  an  enemy  now,  a  deadly 
enemy.  Perrin  the  notary  ;  Laure  — 
monsieur  —  he  insulted  us  —  he  in- 
sulted my  mother  —  I  could  not  bear 
that  —  I  insulted  him." 

"  You,  Josephine  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  you  may  well  wonder.  How 
little  we  know  ourselves !  but  our 
mother  was  trembling  in  her  chair, 
her  noble,  her  beloved  face  all  pale,  — 
all  pale,  —  and  she  put  up  her  hands 
before  her  sacred  head,  for  the  ruffian 
was  threatening  her  with  his  loud  voice 
and  brutal  gestures." 

"  O  my  poor  mother  !  " 

"  Sacr-r-re  canaille  !  —  and  I  not 
there !  " 

"  Then  in  a  moment,  I  know  not 
how,  I  was  upon  him,  and  I  cried, 
'  Back,  wretch  1 '  " 

"  Well  done." 

"  With  my  hand  over  his  head. 
O,  if  he  had  faced  me  a  moment, 
I  should  have  struck  him  with  all  my 
soul,  and  in  the  face.  I  should  have 
killed  him.  I  was  stronger  than  lions, 
and  as  fierce.  I  was  not  myself.  I 
knew  no  fear ;  I  who  now  am  all  fear 
again.  My  children,  it  was  but  a  sin- 
gle coward,  —  had  it  been  a  regiment 
of  braves,  I  should  have  fiung  myself 
upon  them,  —  for  my  mother.  Mad- 
woman that  I  was  !  " 

"  You  noble  creature  —  you  goddess 

—  I  only  loved  you,  and  honored  you 

—  now  I  adore  you." 

"  O  Edouard,  you  do  not  sec  what 
my  violence  has  done.  Alas  !  I  who 
love  my  sister  so  have  ruined  her.  I 
have  ruined  the  mother  I  tried  to  pro- 
tect. I  have  ruined  the  house  of 
Beaurepaire.  For  that  shrinking 
coward  has  the  heart  of  a  fiend.  He 
told  us  he  had  never  forgiven  an 
affront,  — 'and  he  holds  our  fate  in  his 
hands.  '  You  turn  me  out  of  the 
room,'  he  yelled  (oh  !  I  turn  cold  now 
when  I  think  of  his  words),  'I  will 
turn  you  out  of  the  room,  and  out  of 


the  house  as  well.  You  stand  here 
and  say  to  me,  '  Sortez  !  '  In  a  little 
while  I  will  stand  here,  —  here,  and 
say  to  you,  '  Sortez  !  '  He  will  do  it. 
It  is  written  in  my  heart,  so  hot  with 
rage  a  moment  ago,  so  cold  with  ter- 
ror now  —  he  will  do  ic  —  he  will 
come  armed  with  the  law  —  the  iron 
law  —  and  say  to  us  poor  debtors  — 
'  Sortez  I '  " 

"And  if  he  does,"  said  Edouard, 
firmly,  and  cutting  each  word  with 
his  clenching  teeth,  "  this  is  what  will 
happen.  I  will  cut  his  liver  out  with 
my  dog-whip  before  you  all,  and  you 
will  not  go  at  all." 

"  That  is  spoken  like  a  man  !  " 
cried  Laure,  warmly. 

"  You  talk  like  a  child,"  said  Jose- 
phine. "  Yet  perhaps  you  miglit  do 
something.  Will  you  do  something 
for  me  1  " 

"  Did  you  do  nothing  for  me  to- 
day, that  you  put  such  a  question  ?  " 

"  We  will  not  speak  of  that,  my 
friend." 

"  No,"  cried  the  boy,  trembling 
with  emotion,  "  wc  will  not  talk  of  it; 
these  arc  not  things  to  talk  of;  but 
we  will  —  "  And  for  lack  of  words 
he  seized  upon  both  her  hands  and 
kissed  them  violently,  and  then  seized 
her  gown  and  kissed  that. 

"  You  know  Bonard  the  farmer, 
—  he  lives  about  a  league  from  this." 

"  Yes !  yes  !  " 

"  Rtm  thither  across  the  meadows, 
and  find  out  whether  Perrin  has  been 
to  him  since  leaving  the  chateau.  He 
has  only  a  few  minutes'  start ;  you 
will  perhaps  arrive  before  he  leaves." 

"Before  he  leaves!  I  shall  be 
there  before  him.  Do  you  think  a 
dun  cow  can  carry  a  scoundrel  to- 
wards villany  as  fast  as  I  can  go  to 
please  an  angel  ?  " 

"  You  will  come  back  to  Beaure- 
paire and  tell  me  1 " 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  "  and  he  was  gone. 

The  sisters  followed  slowly  to  the 
gate,  and  watched  the  impetuous  boy 
run  across  the  park. 

"  He  does  not  take  the  path/'  said 
Josephine. 


WHITE  LIES. 


95 


"  0,"  said  Laure,  "  what  are  paths 
to  liim  ■?  He  lias  no  prejudice  in  favor 
of  beaten  tracivs.  He  is  going  the 
shortest  way  to  Bonard,  that  we  may 
be  sure  of." 

"How  gallantly  he  runs,  Laure; 
how  high  he  holds  his  head  ;  how  easi- 
ly he  moves ;  and  yet  how  he  clears 
the  ground,  —  already  at  the  edge  of 
the  park." 

"  Yes,  but,  Josephine,  the  strong 
bramble  hedge,  —  ilicre  is  no  gap 
there,  —  no  stile.  What  will  he  do  ? 
Ah!" 

Edouard  had  solved  the  riddle  of 
the  hedge ;  by  a  familiar  manoeuvre 
unknown  to  those  ladies  until  that 
moment,  he  increased  his  pace  and 
took  a  flying  leap  right  at  the  hedge, 
but,  turning  in  the  air,  came  at  it 
with  his  back  instead  of  his  face,  and, 
by  his  weight  and  impetus,  contrived 
to  burst  through  Briareus  in  a  mo- 
ment, and  was  next  seen  a  furlong 
beyond  it. 

The  girls  looked  at  one  another. 
Josephine  smiled  sadly.  Laure  looked 
up  hopefully. 

"  All  our  lives  we  have  thought 
that  hedge  a  barrier  no  mortal  could 
pass,  —  he  did  n't  make  much  of  it. 
Have  courage  then,  my  sister." 

"Laure,  go  in  and  comfort  our 
mother." 

"  Yes,  my  sister,  —  alone  1  Where 
are  vou  going  ?  " 

"To  the  oratory." 

"  Ah !  you  arc  right." 

"  O  Laure,  the  blessing  and  the 
comfort  of  believing  the  God  of  the 
fatherless  is  stronger  than  wicked 
men.  Dark  days  are  coming,  my 
sister." 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

Laure  tried  to  comfort  her  moth- 
er ;  the  consoling  topic  she  chose  was 
young  Riviere.  She  described  his 
zeal,  his  determination  to  baffle  the 
enemy,  how,  she  did  not  know,  but 
she    was  sure   he    would   somehow ; 


and,  to  crown  all,  his  jumping  through 
the  hedge. 

The  baroness  listened  like  a  wound- 
ed porcupine  round  whom  a  fly 
buzzes.  The  notary  was  iier  wound ; 
the  statesman  her  worrying  fly. 
When  her  patience  was  exhausted, 
she  lashed  out  against  him. 

Now,  capricious  imps  like  Laure, 
whom  their  very  nature  seems  to  im- 
pel to  tease  and  flout,  and  even  quar- 
rel with  a  lover  to  his  face,  are  bal- 
anced by  another  strong  impulse, — 
viz.  to  defend  him  behind  his  back, 
ay,  with  more  spirit  than  those  who 
have  more  loving  natures.  Perhaps 
they  feel  they  owe  him  this  reparation. 
Perhaps  to  abuse  him  is  to  infringe 
their  monopoly,  and  they  can't  stand 
that. 

Laure  defended  Edouard  so  warm- 
ly, that,  between  her  mother's  sagacity 
and  her  own  vexation  at  his  being 
sneered  at  by  anybody  but  her,  and 
also  at  her  being  called  once  or  twice 
in  the  course  of  the  argument  by  the 
hateful  epithet  "a  child,"  it  transpired 
that  she  was  the  young  lady  Edouard 
came  to  Beaurepaire  for. 

The  baroness  was  so  shocked  at 
this  that  Laure  repented  bitterly  her 
unguarded  tongue. 

"O  mamma!  don't  look  so, — 
pray,  don't  look  so  !  Mamma  dear, 
be  angry  again,  do  pray  be  very 
angry  :  but  don't  look  so  at  your 
Laure.  I  could  not  help  growing  up. 
I  could  not  help  being  like  you,  mam- 
ma. So  then  they  call  that  being 
pretty,  and  come  teasing  mc.  But  I 
am  not  obliged  to  love  him,  mamma,  do 
pray  remember  that.  I  don't  care  for 
him  the  least  in  the  world,  not  as  I 
do  for  you  and  Josephine  ;  and  if  he 
brings  dissension  here,  I  shall  hate 
him  !  ah  yes  !  you  could  easily  make 
me  hate  him,  —  poor  boy  !  " 

"  I  was  wrong  :  it  is  a  weakness  of 
parents  never  to  see  that  their  children 
are  young  women." 

"  I  am  nineteen  and  a  half,  my 
mother,  and  he  is  only  twenty-one. 
So,  you  see,  it   is  very  natural." 

"Yce!  if  is  very  natural,  —  there, 


96 


whitp:  lies. 


go  and  tell  the  doctor  all  that  has 
happened  this  miserable  day.  For  I 
am  worn  out,  —  quite  worn  out.  Let 
me  have  some  one  of  my  own  age  to 
talk  to.     Ah  !  how  unhappy  lam!" 

Never  since  our  story  commenced 
did  a  sadder,  gloomier  party  sit  round 
the  little  table  and  its  one  candle  in 
the  corner  of  that  vast  saloon. 

Josephine  filled  with  gloomy  appre- 
hensions, and  accusing  herself  of  the 
ruin  of  the  family. 

The  doctor,  sharing  her  anxieties, 
and  bitterly  mortified  at  the  defeat  of 
reason  and  St.  Aubin  :  at  having  been 
deceived  by  this  wolf  in  sheep's  cloth- 
ing. 

Laure  sad,  for  now  for  the  first 
time  they  were  not  all  united  in  opin- 
ion, as  well  as  in  trouble,  and  she 
herself  the  cause. 

The  baroness  in  a  state  of  prostra- 
tion, and  looking  years  older  than  in 
the  morning. 

"  You  are  worn  out,  madame,"  said 
the  good  doctor ;  "  let  me  persuade 
you  to  retire  to  rest  a  little  earlier 
than  usual." 

"No,  my  friend,  I  want  to  sit  and 
look  at  you  all  a  little  longer.  Who 
knows  how  long  we  shall  be  to- 
gether ? " 

There  was  a  heavy  silence. 

Laure  whispered  to  Josephine : 
"Tell  our  mother  she  can  dismiss 
him  whenever  she  pleases  :  it  is  all 
one  to  me." 

"  No  !  no  !  "  said  Josephine,  "  that 
is  not  what  she  is  thinking  of.  She 
is  right :  I  have  ruined  you  all." 

The  door  opened. 

"  Monsieur  lliviere,"  cried  Jacin- 
tha :  and  a  moment  after  the  young 
man  shone  in  the  doorway. 

"Is  this  an  hour — "?  "  began  the 
baroness. 

"  He  comes  by  my  request,"  said 
Josephine,  hastily. 

"  That  is  a  different  thing." 

Edouard  came  down  the  saloon 
with  a  brisk  step  and  a  general  ani- 
mation, and  joined  the  languid  group 
like  a  sunbeam  struggling  into  thick 
fog.     He  bowed  all  round. 


"  Mademoiselle,  he  has  been  there. 
As  I  jumped  over  the  last  stile,  that 
dun  pony  trotted  into  the  yard  ;  I 
sav,  how  he  must  have  spurred 
him." 

Josephine,  who  had  risen  all  ex" 
cited  to  hear  his  report,  sat  down 
again  with  a  gentle,  desponding 
mien. 

"  I  waited  in  ambush  to  see  what 
became  of  him.  He  was  with  the 
farmer  a  good  hour,  —  tlien  he  went 
home.  I  followed  him ;  but  I  did 
nothing,  —  you  imderstand,  because 
I  had  not  precise  orders  from  you ; 
but  I  went  hence,  and  got  my  dog- 
whip,  —  here  it  is  :  whenever  you  give 
the  word,  or  hold  up  your  little  finger 
to  that  effect,  it  shall  be  applied,  and 
with  a  will,"  —  crack,  and  the  ex- 
school-boy  smacked  liis  whip,  mean- 
ing to  make  a  little  crack,  but  it  went 
off  like  a  pistol-shot. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  baroness,  and 
nearly  jumped  out  of  her  seat. 

Edouard  was  abashed. 

"  The  young  savage  !  "  cried  Laure, 
and  smiled  approvingly. 

"  It  is  no  question  of  dog-whips," 
said  St.  Aubin,  with  dignity. 

"And  the  man  is  enough  our  ene- 
my without  our  giving  him  any  real 
cause  to  hate  us,"  remonstrated  Jo- 
sephine. 

"  We  shall  not  be  here  long," 
muttered  the  baroness,  gloomily. 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  venture  to  con- 
tradict you,  madame." 

"  We  are  ruined, —  and  no  power 
can  save  us." 

"  Yes,  madame,  there  is  one  who 
can." 

"■  Who  can  save  mc  now  ? " 
asked  the  baroness,  with  deep  de- 
spondencj-. 

"I ! " 

"You?  child?" 

"I !  if  you  will  permit  me." 

This  frantic  announcement  took 
them  so  by  surprise  that  they  had  not 
even  the  presence  of  mind  to  exclaim 
against  its  absurdity,  but  sat  looking 
at  one  another. 

The  statesman  took  advantage  of 


WHITE   LIES. 


97 


their  petrifaction,  and  began  to  do  a 
little  bit  of  pomposity. 

"  Madame  tlie  baroness,  and  you, 
monsieur,  who  iiave  lionored  me  with 
your  esteem,  and  you,  Mademoiselle 
de  Beaurepaire,  wliom  I  adore,  and 
you,  Mademoiselle  Laure  whom  I  — 
whom  I  hope  to  be  permitted  — 
whom  I  —  listen  all.  You  have  this 
day  done  me  the  honor  to  admit 
me  to  an  intimacy  I  have  long 
sought  in  vain  :  let  mc  then  this  day 
try  to  make  you  some  small  return, 
and  to  justify  in  some  degree  Mon- 
sieur St.  Aubin,  my  kind  advocate. 
Madame,  it  is  your  entire  ignorance 
of  business,  and  unfortunate  neglect 
of  your  property,  that  make  you 
fancy  yourself  ruined." 

The  baroness  laughed  bitterly  at 
the  boy.     Then  her  head  drooped. 

"  Let  us  come  to  facts.  You  are 
living  now  upon  about  one  thousand 
two  hundred  francs  a  year,  — the  bal- 
ance of  your  rents,  after  the  interest 
of  your  loans  is  paid." 

Oh  !  —  and  they  were  astounded 
and  terrified  at  his  knowledge  of  their 
secret,  and  blushed  in  silence  for  their 
poverty. 

"  Your  real  balance,  after  paying 
your  creditors,  is — that  is,  ought  to 
be — five  thousand  two  hundred 
francs.  Your  farms  are  let  a  good 
forty  per  cent  below  their  value : 
your  tenants  are  of  two  classes, — 
those  who  never  had  any  leases,  and 
those  whose  leases  have  long  been  run 
out.  The  tenants  are  therefore  in 
your  power,  and  whenever  you  can 
pluck  up  resolution  to  have  your  real 
income,  say  the  word,  and  I  will  get  it 
you." 

The  baroness  smiled  faintly. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  she,  "  j-ou  are 
right,  I  understand  little  of  business  ; 
but  this  I  know,  tliat  the  farms  are 
let  too  high,  not  too  low.  They  all 
say  so." 

"  AVho  says  so,  madame  ? " 

"  They  who  should  know  best,  — 
the  tenants  themselves.  Two  of  their 
wives  came  here  last  week  and  com- 
plained of  the  hard  times." 


"  What !  the  smoothfaced  cheats, 
tiie  liars  whose  interest  it  is  to  chant 
that  tunc.     Give  me  better  evidence." 

"That  man,  the  notary,  he  said 
so.  And  in  that  point  at  least  I  see 
not  what  interest  —  " 

"  You  —  don't  —  see  —  what  —  in- 
terest—  he  has!"  cried  Edouard. 

"  On  me  coupe  la  parole,'^  *  said  the 
fine  lady,  dolefully,  looking  round  with 
an  air  of  piteous  surprise  on  them  all. 

"  Forgive  me,  madame  :  zeal  for  you 
boiled  over  ;  but  now  is  it  possible  you 
don't  see  what  interest  that  canaille  of 
a  pettifogger  has  1  " 

"  What  phrases  !  " 

"In  humbugging  you  on  that 
point !  " 

"  It  is  a  whole  vocabulary  ! !  !  " 

"  Blame  the  things  and  the  peo- 
ple, not  me,  madame,  since  I  do  but  call 
both  by  their  true  names." 

"  Which,  if  not  so  polite  as  to 
call  them  by  other  names,  is  more 
scientific,"  suggested  St.  Aubin. 

"  Madame,  pray  sec  the  thing  as  it 
is,  and  if  you  insist  on  elegant  ]jiirascs, 
well,  then  :  Beaurepaire  is  a  dying  kid 
that  all  the  little  ravens  about  here  are 
feeding  on,  and  all  the  larger  vultures, 
or  Perrins,  are  scheming  to  carry  away 
to  their  own  nests.  The  estate  of 
Beaurepaire  is  the  cream  of  the  dis- 
trict. The  first  baron  knew  how  to 
choose  land ;  perhaps  he  look  the  one 
bit  of  soil  on  which  he  found  some- 
thing growing  by  the  mere  force  of 
nature,  all  being  alike  uncultivated  in 
that  barbarous  time :  it  is  a  rich  clay 
watered  by  half  a  dozen  brooks.  Ah  ! 
if  3'ou  coukl  farm  it  yourself,  as  my 
uncle  does  his,  you  might  be  wealthy 
in  spite  of  its  encumbrances." 

"  Farm  it  ourselves  !  Is  he  mad?  " 

"  No,  madame  ;  it  is  not  I  who  am 
mad.  Why,  if  you  go  to  that,  it  re- 
quires no  skill  to  deal  with  meadow 
land,  especially  such  land  as  yours,  in 
which  the  grass  springs  of  itself 
Fundil  humo  facilem  victiini  justissima 
teltns,  doctor.  There,  I  will  back 
Jacintha  to  farm  it  for  you,  without 
spoiling   the  dinner.     She  has  more 

*  He  takss  th«  Words  out  of  my  mouth. 


98 


WHITE  LIES. 


intelligence  thiiu  meadow  land  asks. 
la  that  case  your  income  would  be 
twelve  thousand  francs  a  year.  The 
very  idea  makes  you  ill.  Well,  I 
withdraw  it ;  and  there  go  seven 
thousand  francs  per  annum ;  but  tlic 
three  thousand  francs  I  must  and 
will  force  upon  you  for  the  young  la- 
dies' sake ;  and  justice's  and  common 
sense's,  —  do  you  consent?  but,  mon- 
sieur, tiie  baroness  is  ill,  —  she  docs 
not  answer  me  !  her  lips  arc  colorless  ! 
0,  what  have  I  done  ?  I  have  killed 
iier  by  my  brnsquerie." 

"  It  is  nothing,  my  child,"  said  the 
baroness,  faintly  :  "  too  much  trouble, 
—  too  much  grief," — and  she  was 
sinking  back  in  her  chair,  but  Laure's 
arm  was  already  supporting  her,  and 
Josephine  holding  salts  to  her. 

"  It  is  fatigue,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  The  baroness  should  have  retired  to 
rest  earlier,  after  so  trying  a  day." 

"  He  is  right,  my  children.  At  my 
age  ladies  cannot  defy  their  medical 
adviser  with  impunity.  Your  arm, 
my  youngest,"  said  she  ;  and  she  re- 
tired slowly,  leaning  upon  Laure. 

This  little  shade  of  jireference  was 
a  comfort  to  Laure  after  the  short- 
lived differences  of  the  day ;  and 
Josephine  it  would  seem  did  not 
think  it  quite  accidental,  for  she  re- 
sisted her  desire  to  come  on  her 
mother's  other  side,  and  only  went 
slowly  before  them  with  the  liglit. 

(Jn  the  young  ladies'  return  they 
were  beset  witli  anxious  inquiries 
by  Edouard.  St.  Aubin  interrupted 
thera. 

"  They  will  not  tell  you  the  truth," 
said  he,  "  perhaps  they  do  not  even 
know  it.  It  is  partly  fatigue,  partly 
worry  :  but  these  would  not  kill  her 
so  fast  as  they  are  doing,  —  if — if — 
her  food  was  more  generous  —  more  — 
more  nutritious  !  "  and  the  doctor 
groaned. 

"  O  doctor,"  cried  Laure, "  wc  give 
her  the  best  we  have." 

"  I  know  you  do,  little  angel,  but 
you  give  her  delicacies,  —  she  wants 
meat;  you  give  her  spiced  and  per- 
fumed slops,  —  she  wants  tlie  essence 


of  soup ;  and  what  are  grapes  and 
apples  and  pears  and  peaches  t  —  wa- 
ter: what  are  jellies?  —  sticky  water, 
water  and  glue,  but  not  fibre :  what 
are  salads  ?  —  water  :  what  are  nearly 
all  vegetables?  ninety-six  parts  in  the 
hundred  water;  this  has  been  lately 
])roved  by  analysis  in  Paris,  by  a 
friend  of  mine.  Nature  is  very  cun- 
ning, she  disguises  water  with  a  hun- 
dred delicious  flavors ;  and  then  we 
call  it  food.  Farina  and  flesh,  those 
two  are  food  :  the  rest  are  water,  air, 
nothing.  The  baroness  is  at  an  age 
when  people  ought  to  eat  little  at  a 
time,  but  often,  and  onlv  sovereign 
food." 

"  She  shall  have  it  from  this  day," 
cried  Edouard.     "  Let  us  conspire." 

"  0  yes,"  cried  Laure,  "  let  us  con- 
spire !  ■'■" 

"  Let  us  be  kinder  to  her  than  she 
will  ever  be  to  herself.  You  saw  how 
prompt  she  was  to  oppose  my  plans 
for  baffling  her  enemies  ?  Let  us  act 
without  her  knowledge." 

"  But  how  ?  " 

"  Let  me  see.  First  let  us  think  of 
her  health." 

"O  yes!  that  first  of  all." 

"Ah!  thank  you,  Edouard,"  cried 
Josephine,  warmly. 

"  Well,  then,  we  must  begin  thus. 
One  of  you  young  ladies  must  tvsk  to 
be  allowed  to  manage  the  household 
matters.  You  can  say  you  wish  to 
prepare  yourself  for  tlie  day  when 
you  shall  yourself  be  mistress  of  an 
establishment.  Perhaps,  Mademoi- 
selle Laure,  you  would  make  the  pro- 
posal ?  " 

"  Me  !  I  shall  never  be  mistress 
of  an  establishment,"  said  Laure, 
dolefully  and  pettishly.  She  added, 
in  quite  a  different  key,  "  I  do  not 
mean  to  :  I  would  not  for  the  world." 

"  What  a  violent  disclaimer,"  said 
Jesephine;  "  it  will  be  best  for  me  to 
make  the  proposal.  I  will  be  apparent 
mistress  of  the  house,  but,  as  Laure 
rules  me  in  all  things,  she  will  be 
the  real  mistress.  Will  that  meet  my 
friend's  views  ?  " 

"  Provided  she  can  be  got  to  obey 


WHITE  LIES. 


99 


me,"  was  E Jouard's  answer.  "  May 
I  ask  for  another  candle  ?  "  The  bell 
was  rung.  "Another  candle,  Jacin- 
Iha." 

Meantime,  Edounrd,  too  eager  to 
wait  for  anything  long,  took  out  of 
his  pocket  a  map,  and  spread  it  all 
over  the  table  :  Jacintha  came  in, 
and,  being  tormented  M-ith  curiosity, 
took  a  long  time  lighting  the  candle, 
with  a  face  made  stolid  for  the  occa- 
sion. 

"  Now  you  all  know  what  this  is  a 
map  of? " 

"  No  !  "  said  Laiire,  "  it  is  not 
France ;  but  what  country  it  is  I  don't 
know." 

"0  fie  !  Jacintha  knows,  I  '11  be 
bound.  What  map  is  this,  Jacin- 
tha 1  " 

"  It  is  Italy,"  replied  Jacintha, 
firmly,  and  without  any  of  that  hesi- 
tation wliich  in  some  minds  accompa- 
nies entire  ignorance  of  a  subject. 

Edouard  groaned. 

"  Well,  I  did  think  s/ie  would  have 
known  Beaurepairc  when  she  saw  it." 

Jacintha  gave  an  incredulous  toss 
of  her  head. 

"  How  can  it  be  Beanrcpaire  1 
Beaurepairc  is  in  Brittany,  and  this 
country  is  bigger  than  Brittany. 
Brittany  is  down    stairs." 

"  Ah !  "  cried  Laure,  "  here  is  the 
chateau  ! " 

"  Saints  preserve  us,  so  it  is,  ma- 
demoiselle, I  declare.  And  liere  is  tiie 
park,  and  two  ladies  walking  in  it, 
but  I  don't  see  monsieur  :  neverthe- 
less he  is  as  often  there  as  you  are, 
mesdemoiselles,"  said  Jacintha,  de- 
murely. 

"  What  an  unfortunate  omission  !  " 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so  :  it  is 
easily  supplied,"  and  with  his  pencil 
he  rapidly  inserted  a  male  figure 
walking  with  the  ladies,  .and  its  body 
paying  them  a  world  of  obsequious 
attention. 

Jacintha  retired  with  a  grin. 

The  map  was  warmly  admired. 

"  0,  I  used  always  to  get  a  prize 
for  them  at  the  Polytechnic." 

"And  so  beautiful! v  colored  :  but 


what  are  all  these  names  1 "  said 
Josephine,  "  the  Virgin's  Coppice  "i  I 
never  heard  of  that." 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  "  cried  Edouard,  "  she 
never  lieard  of  the  Virgin's  Coppice. 
What  is  it "?  Wiiy,  it  is  a  sort  of  marsh  : 
I  shot  a  brace  of  snipes  in  it  the  other 
day." 

"  But  you  have  not  painted  any 
trees  on  it  to  show  it  is  a  coppice." 

"  Trees  ?  there  is  not  a  tree  in  it, 
and  has  not  been  this  two  or  three 
iiundrcd  years." 

"  Tlicn  why  do  we  call  it  a  coppice 
still  ? " 

"  I  don't  know :  all  I  know  is, 
there  are  snipes  in  it,  —  no  small 
virtue." 

Lanre.  "  The  Deer  Tark,  —  I 
never  heard  of  that." 

Edouard  (lifting  up  his  hands). 
"  They  don't  know  their  own  fields  : 
the  Deer  Park  is  a  ploughed  field  not 
for  from  Dard's  house,  which  you 
may  behold.  Now  give  me  your  at- 
tention." The  young  man  then 
showed  them  the  homesteads  of  the 
several  tenants,  and  pointed  out  the 
fields  tliat  belonged  to  each  farm, 
and  the  very  character  of  the  soil  of 
each  field. 

They  gazed  at  him  in  half-stupe- 
fied wonder,  and  at  the  mass  and  pre- 
cision of  his  knowledge  on  a  subject 
where  they  were  not  only  profoundly 
ignorant,  but  had  not  even  deemed 
knowledge  accessible  to  ladies  and 
gentlemen.  He  concluded  by  as- 
suring them  that  he  had  carefully 
surveyed  and  valued  every  field  on 
the  estate,  and  that  the  farms  were 
let  full  forty  per  cent  below  their 
value. 

"  Now,  mesdemoiselles,  your  mother 
has  a  claim  upon  the  estate  for  her 
jointure,  but  you  are  the  true  pro- 
prietors." 

"  Are  we  1 " 

"  O  gracious  Heavens  !  they  did 
not  even  know  who  their  estate  be- 
longed to.  Well,  give  me  an  author- 
ity, on  this  paper,  to  act  as  your 
agent,  or  we  shall  never  get  our  forty 
per    cent.      Neither    you    nor    your 


100 


WHITE   LIES. 


mother  are  any  matcli  for  these  sheep- 
faced  rustics, — leeches  who  have 
been  sucking  your  blood  this  fifty 
years,  —  crying  hyenas  that  have 
been  moaning  and  winning  because 
they  could  not  gnaw  your  bones  as 
well." 

"  My  friend,"  said  Josephine,  "  I 
would  do  this  with  pleasure,  but 
mamma  would  be  so  hurt,  it  is  im- 
possible." 

"  Mademoiselle  —  Josephine — you 
saw  how  your  mother  received  my 
proposals  for  her  good  and  yours. 
Consider,  I  am  strong  enougli  to  de- 
feat your  enemies,  provided  I  have 
none  but  enemies  to  battle  ;  but  if  I 
am  to  fight  the  baroness,  and  her  pre- 
judices, as  well  as  Perrin  and  the 
tenants,  then  failure  is  certain,  and  I 
wash  my  hands  of  it." 

"But  consider,  impetuous  boy,  we 
cannot  defy  our  mother,  whom  we 
love  so." 

"Defy  her?  no!  But  you  need 
not  go  and  tell  her  everything  you 
do." 

"  Certainly  not.  You  know,  doc- 
tor, wo  kept  from  her  Bonard's  threat 
till  tlie  danger  seemed  passed." 

"  And  we  did  well,"  cried  Laure  ; 
"  think  if  she  had  known  .what  was 
hanging  over  her  all  that  lime!" 

"What  do  you  say,  do:  tor?" 
asked  Josephine. 

"  I  don't  know,  my  dear.  It  is  a 
hard  alteraative.  As  a  general  rule 
1  don't  like  deception." 

"  I  do  not  propose  deception,"  said 
the  young  man,  blushing  ;  "  only  a 
wise  reticence;  and  without  this  reti- 
cence, this  reserve,  even  my  plan  for 
improving  her  diet  must  fail." 

"  In  that  case  I  take  the  sin  of 
reticence  on  me.  I  claim  the  post  of 
honor  ! "  cried  Laure,  with  great  agi- 
tation and  glistening  eyes. 

" I  consent !  "exclaimed  Josephine ; 
"  this  child,  so  young,  so  pure,  cannot 
be  wrong." 

"  All  I  know  is,"  said  the  doctor, 
"  tlmt  the  more  roast  meat  she  has, 
and  the  less  worry,  the  longer  my 
IKJor  friend  will  live." 


"  O  give  me  the  paper,  Edouard, 
we  will  both  authorize  you,  and 
thank  you  for  letting  us." 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  and  wc  will  do  what- 
ever he  advises  us,"  cried  Laure ; 
"that  is,  vou  shall, —  I'll  see  about 
it." 

"  And  0  doctor,"  said  Josephine, 
"  what  a  comfort  it  is  to  have  some 
one  about  us  who  has  energy  and  de- 
cision and,  above  all,  takes  the  com- 
mand !  " 

The  next  day  Edouard  came  into 
tlie  kitchen  and  adopted  Jacintha  into 
the  conspiracy  :  consulted  her  how  to 
smuggle  nutriment  into  the  baroness, 
and  bar  the  tenants  from  all  access  to 
her  for  a  while.     He  told  her  why. 

"  Canaille  of  tenants,"  she  cried, 
"this  then  has  been  your  game  all 
these  years:  good, — wait  till  the 
next  of  you  comes  here  pulling  a  long 
face,  crocodiles :  1  '11  tell  you  my 
mind  !  " 

"  No  !  no  !  anything  but  that :  they 
would  say  it  is  Jacintha  who  keeps  us 
from  the  baroness,  and  they  would 
write  to  her  or  try  a  dozen  artifices  to 
gain  her  ear." 

"  You  are  right,  my  son  :  I  was 
stupid ;  no,  it  shall  be  diamond  cut 
diamond.  I  '11  meet  them  with  a  face 
as  smooth  as  their  own,  and  say  to 
them  —  what  shall  I  say  to  the  ca- 
naille ?  " 

"  Say  the  baroness  in  her  failing 
state  sees  no  one  on  business ;  say 
also  that  she  has  made  over  the  control 
of  the  property  to  her  daughters  and 
their  agent:  add  that  —  ahem  —  she 
is  dying  !  " 

"  Yes  !  that  is  the  best  of  all  to  say  ; 
but  stay,  no,  —  it  is  not  lucky.  Per- 
haps in  that  case  she  will  die,  and  I 
shall  have  killed  —  " 

"Stuff!  people  don't  die  to  make 
other  people's  words  good,  that  would 
be  too  stupid  :  cut  me  forty  bunches 
of  grapes." 

jacintha  looked  rueful. 

"  My  dear,  it  is  not  for  me  to  deny 

you." 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  deny  me." 


WHITE  LIES. 


101 


"  Well,  but  forty  bunches  !  " 

"  Order  fioni    the  mistress  !  "  said 

the  young  man,  pompously  drawing 

out  a  paper. 
It  ran  thus  :  — 

"  Jacintha,  do  whatever  Monsieur 
Riviere  bids  you  ! 

"  JOSEPIUXE  DE  BeAUREPAIRE." 

"  Well,  to  be  sure.  I  say,  you  have 
not  lost  much  time,  my  young  mon- 
sieur. At  least  tell  me  what  you 
want  forty  bunches  of  grapes  for?  " 

Before  he  could  answer  came  a 
clatter,  and  a  figure  hopped  in  with  a 
crutch. 

"  Why,  Dard  !  a  sight  of  you  is 
good  for  sore  eyes.  Who  would  have 
thought  vou  could  have  got  so  far  as 
this!" 

"  I  am  going  farther  than  this.  I 
am  going  down  to  the  town  to  sell 
your  grapes,  and  such  like  belly  ven- 
geance, and  bring  hack  grub,  — 
aha ! " 

"  O,  that  is  the  game,  is  it,  my 
lads  ?  "  cried  Jacintha. 

"  That,  and  no  other,"  replied 
Dard. 

"  If  the  baroness  comes  to  hear  of  it, 
won't  you  catch  it,  that  is  all !  " 

"  But  she  never  will  hear  of  it,  un- 
less you  tell  her." 

"  0,  I  sha'  n't  tell  her.  I  durst  n't. 
She  would  faint  away.  Here  is  a 
down-come.  Selling  our  fruit.  Ah  ! 
well-a-day.  What  is  Beaurepaire 
coming  to  "? " 

"  Will  you  go  and  cut  them  ?  "  cried 
Riviere,  stamping  with  impatience. 

"  Well,  1  am  going,"  snapped  Ja- 
cintha. 

Dard  had  got  a  little  cart  outside, 
and  his  grandmother's  jackass. 

"  Citizen,  if  you  will  bring  the 
hampers  out  of  my  cart  into  the  gar- 
den, I  will  help  her  cut  the  fruit ;  it  is 
all  I  am  fit  for  at  the  present.  I  am 
no  longer  a  man.  Behold  me  a  robin- 
redbreast,  hop-ping  a-bout !  " 

"  We  may  as  well  he  killed  for  a 
Bheep  as  a  lamb,"  s;iid  Jacintha,  dole- 
fully.    "  I  have  pulled   a  few  dozen 


peaches.     It   is   a   higlnvay  robbery ; 
they   would   have  rotted  on   the  tree. 

0  Dard  !  you  won't  ever  let  tlie  folks 
know  where  they  come  from  1  " 

"  No,  no  !  he  has  got  his  lessons 
from  me." 

"  That  is  a  different  thing  :  what 
would  they  say  if  they  knew  '!  Why, 
that  we  are  at  our  last  gasp  !  Selling 
our  very  fruit  off  our  walls  "  ;  and 
the  corner  of  her  apron  was  lifted  to 
her  eye. 

"  You  great  baby,"  cried  Edouard  ; 
"don't  you  see  this  is  the  beginning 
of  common  sense,  and  proper  econo- 
my, and  will  end  in  riches  't  " 

Dard  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Reason  is  too  good  a  thing  to 
waste  :  let  her  snivel  !  " 

"  Now,  Dard,"  cried  Jacintha,  cheer- 
fully, "  what  I  want  most  is  some  lard, 
some  butter,  some  meal,  a  piece  of 
veal,  a  small  joint  of  mutton,  and  a 
bit  of  beef  lor  soup ;  but  a  little 
chocolate  would  not  be  amiss,  our 
potatoes  are  very  short,  and  you  can 
bring  up  some  white  beans,  if  you  see 
any  good  ones." 

"  Nothing  more  than  that  wanted? " 
inquired  Dard. 

"  Yes.  Was  I  mad  ?  Coffee  is 
Avanted  most  dismally." 

"  Buy  it  if  you  dare  !  "  cried  Riv- 
iere. "  No,  Dard,  that  is  my  affair, 
and  mine  alone." 

Presently  there  was  a  fresh  anxiety. 
Dard  would  be  recognized,  and,  by 
him,  the  folk  would  know  out  of  what 
garden  came  his  mercliandisc. 

"  All  is  provided  for,"  said  Edouard. 
"  Dard,  embellish  thyself." 

Dard  drew  out  of  his  pocket  a 
beard  and  put  it  on. 

"  Is  he  Dard  now  ?  " 

"  My  faith,  no  !  " 

"  Is  he  even  human  ?  " 

"  Not  too  much  so,  ha !  ha  !  —  well, 
Beaurepaire  is  alive  since  you  came 
into  it,  my  gaillard!  " 

"  Now  you  know,"  said  Dard,  "  if 

1  am  to  do  this  little  job  to-day,  I 
must  start." 

"  Who  keeps  you  ?  "  was  the  reply. 
Tiius  these  two  loved. 


102 


WHITE  LIES. 


Etiouard  had  no  sooner  embellished, 
primed,  and  started  Dard,  by  fencing 
with  a  pointed  stick  at  his  jackass, 
which  like  a  ship  was  a  good  traveller 
but  a  coy  starter,  than  he  went  round 
to  all  the  tenants  with  St.  Aubin. 
lie  showed  them  his  authority,  and 
offered  them  leases  at  forty  per  cent 
advance  on  the  present  rent.  They 
refused,  to  a  man. 

It  came  out  that  most  of  them  had 
been  about  to  propose  a  reduction,  but 
had  forborne  out  of  good  feeling  to- 
wards the  baroness.  And  that  same 
feeling  would  perhaps  give  them  the 
courage  to  go  on  under  the  burden  a 
year  or  two  longer,  but  as  for  advan- 
cing tiie  rent  a  sou,  never  !  ! 

Others  could  not  be  got  to  take  a 
grave  view  of  so  merry  a  proposal. 
They  were  all  good-humor  and  jokes, 
with  satire  underneath,  at  the  jolly 
audacity  of  talking  of  raising  the 
Beaurepaire  rents  :  with  one  and  all 
Iliviere  was  short  and  clear. 

"  There  is  my  card :  the  leases 
await  you  at  my  house  :  you  must 
come  and  sign  in  three  days  !  " 

"  And  if  I  should  happen  not  to 
come  nor  sign  either,  my  little  mon- 
sieur ■?  " 

"  In  that  case  a  writ  of  ejectment 
will  be  served  on  you  before  sunset  of 
the  third  day.     Adieu  !  " 

"  All  the  better  for  me,"  sang  out 
one  as  Edouard  retired. 

The  doctor  was  much  discouraged. 

"  This  universal  consent  surely 
goes  to  prove  —  " 

"  That  they  have  a  common  inter- 
est in  deceiving." 

"  You  arc  very  young  to  think  so 
ill  of  men." 

"  I  have  been  months  in  a  govern- 
ment office.  Ah !  monsieur,  I  have 
seen  men  too  near :  I  left  the  Poly- 
technic with  illusions  about  honesty 
and  sincerity  among  men,  — putf  they 
are  gone." 

"  Are  they  ?  then  accursed  be  the 
hour  j'ou  ever  saw  a  government 
office." 

"  No,  no  :  but  for  my  experience 
under  government  I  should  not  be  so 


shai-p,  and  if  I  was  not  sharp  I  could 
not  serve  our  sacred  cause." 

"  Still  at  your  age  to  have  lost  all 
confidence  in  men  and  women  !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  cried  tlic 
misanthropist,  eagerly,  "  not  in  wo- 
men :  they  have  none  of  the  vices  of 
men  ;  no  selfishness,  no  lieartlessness. 
I  see  in  them  some  little  tendency  to 
fib,  —  I  mean  in  the  uneducated  ones  ! 
but,  dear  me,  their  fibs  are  so  innocent. 
Women  ! !  we  men  are  not  worthy  to 
share  the  earth  with  them." 

Tlie  doctor  smiled.  For  the  last 
thirty  or  forty  years  he  had  no  longer 
been  able  to  see  this  prodigious  differ- 
ence between  the  sexes. 

"  And  can  all  these  honest  male 
faces  be  deceiving  us  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  What  1  because  they  are  round  ! 
I  too  used  to  picture  to  myself  a 
sharper  with  a  sharp  face  — eyes  close 
together — foxy:  but  I  soon  found 
your  true  Tartuffe  is  the  round-vis- 
aged  or  square-faced  fellow.  He 
seems  a  lump  of  candor :  he  is  a  razor 
keen  and  remorseless.  There  are  no 
better  actors  in  the  Theatre  Frangais 
than  these  frank  peasants.  You  will 
see.  Good  by  ;  I  must  run  to  the  town 
for  drafts  of  leases,  Mocha  coffee,  and 
writs  of  ejectment." 

There  were  in  the  little  town  in 
question  two  notaries,  Perrin  and  Pi- 
card,  on  good  terms  with  each  other 
outwardly. 

Though  young  and  impetuous,  and 
subject  to  gusts  of  vanity,  Edouard 
was  not  so  shallow  as  to  despise  an 
enemy  of  whom  he  knew  notliing  but 
that  he  was  a  lawyer.  No.  He  said 
to  himself:  "  We  have  a  notary 
against  us.  I  must  play  a  notary." 
He  went  to  Picard,  and  began  by  re- 
questing him  to  draw  up  seven  agree- 
ments for  leases,  and  to  have  ready 
three  or  four  writs  of  ejectment.  Hav- 
ing thus  propitiated  the  notary  by 
doing  actual  business  with  him,  he 
began  cautiously  to  hint  at  the  other 
notary's  enmity  to  Beaurepaire. 

"  You  surprise  me,"  said  Picard. 
"  I  really  think  you  must  be  mistaken. 
Monsieur  Perrin  owes  all  to  that  fum- 


WHITE   LIES. 


103 


fly.  It  was  the  baron  wlio  launched 
him.  IIovv  often  have  I  seen  him, 
when  a  boy,  hold  the  baron's  horse, 
and  be  rewarded  by  a  silver  coin. 
O  no,  Monsieur  rerrin  is  a  man 
that  bears  a  fair  character :  I  cannot 
believe  this  of  him." 

This  defence  of  his  competitor 
looked  so  like  master  asp  in  his  basket 
of  figs,  that  Edouard  hesitated  no 
longer,  but  gave  him  the  general  fea- 
tures of  the  case,  and  went  by  rapid 
gradations  into  a  towering  passion. 

Picard  proposed  to  him  to  be  cool. 

"  I  cannot,"  said  he,  "  enter  into 
your  feud  with  Pcrrin,  for  the  best  of 
all  reasons  :  I  do  business  with  him." 

Edouard  looked  blank. 

"  He  is  also  a  respectable  man." 

Edouard  looked  blanker. 

"  But,  on  the  other  hand,  you  are 
now  my  client,  monsieur,  and  he  is 
not  my  client.     You  understand  1  " 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Edouard.  "  You 
are  an  honest  man,"  he  cried,  not 
stopping  to  pick  his  epithets,  and 
seized  the  notary's  hand,  and  shook 
it :  it  let  itself  be  shaken,  and  was  in 
that  and  other  respects  like  cold  jelly. 
Its  owner  invited  him  to  tell  the  whole 
story. 

"  Never  have  any  reserves  with  your 
notary,"  said  he,  severely ;  "  that  is 
the  grand  folly  of  clients  :  and  then 
they  come  and  blame  us  if  we  make 
a  mistake  ;  they  forget  that  it  is  they 
who  mislead  us." 

On  this  theme  he  rose  to  tepid. 
He  dwelt  on  this  abominable  practice 
of  clients,  till  Edouard  found  out  that 
lawyers  arc  the  worst-used  people  liv- 
ing. 

But  who  is  not  that  ? 

They  put  their  heads  together,  and 
Edouard  found  what  an  advantage 
his  new  friend's  coolness  and  com- 
mand of  temper  gave  him,  and  he 
vowed  to  ally  his  own  energy  to  the 
notary's  cold  blood. 

When  he  was  gone,  Picard  went 
into  his  clerk's  room  and  gave  him 
an  order  to  draw  up  agreements  for 
leases,  leaving  blanks  for  the  names  : 
then  he  added  :  — 


"  What  do  you  think  1  The  rascal 
is  scheming  to  get  hold  of  Beaure- 
paire  now." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  But  it  is  just  like 
him,"  said  the  clerk. 

"  But  I  '11  put  a  spoke  in  his 
wheel,"  said  Picard. 

Josephine  was  now  houf^ehold  queen 
at  Beaurcpaire  ;  Laure,  viceroy  over 
her.  This  young  lady  was  born  to 
command,  and  Nature  prevailed  over 
seniority.  Therein  Nature  was  re- 
warded by  the  approbation,  the  warm 
approbation,  of  Monsieur  Edouard 
liiviere.  That  young  statesman  elect- 
ed himself  prime  minister  to  the  lady- 
lieutenant  ;  and  so  great  was  his  def- 
erence to  her  judgment,  even  on 
points  where  she  was  unfalhomably 
ignorant,  that  he  was  forever  seeking 
grave  conferences  with  her. 

The  leading  maxim  with  them  all 
was  that  the  baroness  was  on  no  ac- 
count to  be  worried  or  alarmed,  nor 
her  prejudices  shocked:  where  these 
stood  between  her  own  comfort  and 
her  friends'  plans  for  that  comfort,  the 
governing  powers  made  a  little  detour 
and  evaded  collisions  with  them. 

For  instance,  the  baroness  would 
never  have  consented  to  sell  a  Beau- 
rcpaire grape.  She  would  have  starved 
sooner,  or  lived  on  the  grapes ;  if 
diarrhoeaing  can  be  called  living.  So 
when  she  demanded  of  Queen  Jose- 
phine how  there  came  such  an  influx 
of  beef,  mutton,  and  veal  into  the  cha- 
teau. Lieutenant  Laure  explained  that 
Edouard  had  begged  Josephine  to 
give  him  some  fruit  that  was  rotting 
on  the  walls,  and  she  had  consented. 

"  It  seems,  mamma,  that  these  gov- 
ernment officers  interchange  civilities 
with  the  tradespeople.  So  he  made 
presents  of  fruit  to  those  he  deals 
with,  and  they  sent  him  in  return  — 
he  !  he !  —  specimens  of  their  several 
arts.  And  he  never  dines  at  home 
now,  but  always  here.  So  he  sent 
them  over,  and  do  you  know  I  think 
it  is  as  well  he  did,  for  that  boy  eats 
like  a  wolf,  does  n't  he,  Josephine  1 " 
"  Yes,  love,"  said  Josephine. 
"  What  did  you  say,  dear  1     I  was 


104 


WHITE   LIES. 


full  of  my  tliouj^hts,  my  forebod- 
ings." 

'•  Then  wh;it  right  had  you  to  say 
'  yes  '  ?  " 

"  Because  it  was  you  who  appealed 
to  me,  my  sister." 

"  No,  no,  no  !  it  is  your  nature  to 
Bay  that  silliest  of  words,  —  that  is 
why." 

The  baroness  took  no  notice  of 
this  by-talk 

"  I  should  not  like  h'nn  not  to  have 
enough,"  said  she,  with  some  hesita- 
tion. 

In  short  Doctors  Laure  and  Jose- 
phine so  gilded  the  meat  pills  that  the 
baroness  swallowed  them,  and  was 
none  the  worse  for  them,  actually  ! 

Another  day  dead  chickens  flooded 
the  larder. 

"  O  mamma,  come  and  see  what 
the  tenants  have  sent  us  !  " 

"  The  good  souls  !  and  these  are 
the  people  whose  rents  he  talked  of 
raising." 

"  Who  minds  what  he  says,  mam- 
ma ?  —  a  young  madman." 

Another  fine  day  it  rained  eggs. 
These  too  were  fathered  upon  the 
tenants. 

Hope  then  to  escape  false  accusa- 
tions !  ! 

In  these  and  many  other  ways 
they  beguiled  the  old  lady  for  her 
good.  The  baroness  was  not  to  see 
or  hear  anything  but  what  she  would 
like  to  see  and  hear. 

"  Do  not  deceive  her  unnecessarily. 
But  deceive  her  rather  than  thwart  or 
vex  her." 

This  was  the  leading  maxim  of  the 
new  queen-craft,  and  all  played  their 
part  to  perfection,  — none  better  than 
Jacintlia,  who,  besides  a  ready  inven- 
tion and  an  oily  tongue,  possessed  in 
an  eminent  degree  the  vultus  clausus 
of  the  Latins,  — volto  Sciolto  of  their 
descendants  :  in  English,  a  close  face. 
And,  though  they  entered  on  this  game 
with  hesitation,  yet  they  soon  warmed 
in  it.  The  new  guile  was  charming. 
To  defraud  a  beloved  one  of  discom- 
fort,—  to  cheat  her  into  a  good  opin- 
ion of  all  she  wished  to  think  well  of. 


—  to  throw  a  veil,  a  silver  ti.-sue  of 
innocent  fibs,  between  her  and  trouble, 

—  to  smuggle  sovereign  food  into  her 
mouth  and  more  sovereign  hope  into 
her  heart.  Pious  frauds  !  and  you 
know  many  a  holy  man  has  justified 
these  in  writings  dedicated  to  the 
Church,  and  practised  them  for  the 
love  of  God  and  the  good  of  man. 

The  baroness's  health,  strength,  and 
spirits  improved  visibly. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

On  the  third  day  a  tenant  called  on 
Riviere,  hemmed  and  hawed,  and  pre- 
pared to  draw  distant,  but  converging 
lines  of  circumvallation  round  the 
subject  of  Rent. 

Riviere  cut  the  process  short. 

"  I  am  a  public  man,  and  have  no 
time  to  waste  in  verbiage.  On  that 
table  is  a  seven  years'  lease,  with 
blanks  ;  you  can  sign  it  at  forty  per 
cent  increased  rent,  or,  by  paying  a 
bonus  of  one  thousand  francs,  at  thir- 
ty per  cent." 

The  man  attempted  to  remonstrate. 

Riviere  cut  him  dead  short  this 
time. 

The  farmer  then  lowered  hU  voice. 

"  I  have  got  a  thousand  francs  in 
my  pocket,"  said  he. 

"  0,  you  prefer  the  thirty  per  cent, 
and  the  bonus.     Very  well." 

"  That  is  not  what  I  mean.  You 
and  I  might  do  better  than  that.  We 
will  say  nothing  about  a  bonus  ;  you 
shall  clap  on  ten  per  cent  to  show 
your  zeal  to  the  landlord,  and  this," 
lowering  his  voice,  "  will  be  for  you, 
and  no  questions  asked." 

Riviere's  first  impulse  was  to  hit 
him  ;  the  next  was  to  laugh  at  him, 
which  he  accordingly  did. 

"  My  man,"  said  he,  "  you  must 
be  very  much  in  love  with  dishonesty. 
Now  listen  :  if  I  report  that  little  pro- 
posal of  yours  at  Beaurepaire,  you 
w^ill  never  get  a  lease  upon  any 
terms." 

"  But  you  won't !  you  won't !  " 


WHITE  LIES. 


105 


"  "Won't  I  ?  if  you  don't  come  to 
book  in  live  minutes,  I  will  !  " 

"  Give  me  ten,  and  I  will  see  about 
it." 

"  Humph  ?  I  don't  see  what  j'ou 
want  witii  ten  minutes,  —  but  take 
them." 

The  farmer  retired,  and  very  soon 
after  voices  were  heard  and  heavy 
feet,  and  in  came  four  farmers. 

Riviere  grinned.  No.  1  had  been 
secretly  a  deputation.  The  little  lot 
had  been  all  under  the  window,  wait- 
ini;  till  the  agent  should  have  taken 
the  bribe,  and  made  them  all  right 
with  Beaurcpaire.  But  when  No.  1 
came  down  with  his  hair  standing  on 
end,  to  tell  them  that  he  had  fallen  in 
with  a  monster,  a  being  unknown, 
fabulous,  incredible,  an  agent  that 
would  not  swindle  his  master,  they 
succumbed  as  the  bravest  spirits  must, 
even  Macbeth,  before  the  supernatural. 

They  came  up  stairs,  and  sorrow- 
fully knuckled  down  ;  only  No.  1  put 
in  a  hope  that  they  were  not  to  be 
treated  worse  than  those  who  had  not 
come  to  him  at  all. 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  Because  two  or  three  arc  gone  to 
the  chateau." 

"  They  shall  gain  nothing  by  that." 

"  But  we  said  why  plague  the  bar- 
oness :  she  is  old.  tSiie  is  at  death's 
door.  Lastly  she  has  got  an  honest 
agent;  let  us  go  to  him." 

N.  B. — They  had  all  been  at  the  cha- 
teau ;  but  Jacintha  had  fooled  the  lot. 

Riviere  opened  a  door  and  beck- 
oned. Out  popped  M.  Picard's  clerk, 
brisk  and  smiling. 

"  You  have  got  the  writs  in  your 
pocket." 

"  Seven  of  them,  monsieur." 

The  farmers  looked  at  one  another. 

"  The  moment  we  have  settled  these 
leases,  run  up  to  the  chateau,  and,  if 
you  catch  any  farmers  prowling  about, 
serve  them — he!  he!  Now,  messieurs." 
A  rustling  of  parchments, —  a  crush- 
ing of  pens  to  death  on  the  table  to 
see  what  they  would  stand  on  paper, 
—  a  putting  out  of  tongues  to  write 
well,  —  a  writing  ill,  —  a  looking  at  the 


work  after  it  was  done, —  a  wrenching 
out  of  bags  of  silver  from  the  breech- 
es-pocket like  molars  from  the  jaws, 
—  ii  sighing,  —  a  making  of  bows, —  a 
clattering  down  the  stair,  —  a  dying 
away  of  feet  and  voices,  —  and  nothing 
was  left  but  the  four  money-bags  dis- 
persed at  intervals  over  the  floor,  and 
the   statesman    dancing  a   Saraband 


them. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

WiLDisii  conduct.  But  sixty 
years  ago  when  a  man  was  a  boy  he 
was  young.  And,  besides,  the  oaillard 
was  not  born  in  the  isle  of  fogs. 

Such  relaxations  are  brief  with  busy 
men.  In  another  five  minutes  he  was 
off  to  the  chateau.  He  went  the 
shortest  way  across  the  park,  and,  as 
he  drew  near  the  little  gate,  lo  !  the 
Pleasance  was  full  of  people.  He 
was  soon  among  them.  Besides  the 
doctor  and  the  two  young  ladies  there 
were  three  farmer^  and  two  farmers' 
wives.  Failing  in  their  attempts  to 
see  the  baroness,  and  believing  Jacin- 
tha's  story  that  she  never  came  down 
stairs,  but  employed  herself  on  the 
second  floor  in  pious  offices  and  in 
departing  this  life,  they  had  been  sore 
puzzled  what  to  do ;  but,  catching  a 
sight  of  the  young  ladies  going  out 
for  a  walk,  they  had  boldly  rushed 
into  the  Pleasance  and  intercepted 
tiiem,  and  told  them  the  tale  of  their 
wrongs  so  glibly  and  with  such  hear- 
tiness and  uniformity  of  opinion,  and 
in  tones  so  mellow  and  convincing, 
that  both  the  ladies  and  tiie  doctor 
inclined  to  their  view. 

"  We  will  talk  to  Monsieur  Riv- 
iere," said  Josephine,  kindly  :  "  ah  ! 
here  he  is." 

"  Yes,  here  I  am.  I  thought  I 
should  find  you  here,  good  people. 
Well,  have  you  piped  your  tune?  are 
you  overburdened  with  rent  already  ? 
is  your  part  of  the  estate  cold  and 
sour,  and  does  it  lie  low,  &c.,  &c.,  &c., 
&c.,  &c.,  &c.,  eh?" 


106 


WHITE  LIES. 


"  Yes,"  cried  Laure,  "  they  have. 
La!" 

"  And  it  is  too  true,  monsieur." 

Chorus.     "  Too  true." 

"Jacques  rirot,"  cried  Edouard, 
sternly,  "  last  market-day  you  broke  a 
bottle  of  wine,  I  use  your  own  phrase, 
with  the  man  who  bought  your  calves." 

"  Well,  monsieur,  was  that  a  sin  1 " 

"  When  you  had  broken  that,  and 
spilled  the  wine  into  your  gullet,  you 
broke  another." 

"  And  that  is  what  brings  you  home 
from  market  the  face  red  and  the 
tongue  stuttering,"  cackled  Pirot's 
wife,  there  present. 

"  Silence !  "  cried  Edouard.  "  When 
tlie  wine  is  in,  the  truth  comes  out, 
even  of  a  farmer.  You  bragged  that 
Grapinet  had  offered  you  fifteen  hun- 
dred francs  to  change  farms  with  him, 
and  that  you  had  laughed  in  his  face." 

"  Do  not  believe  it,  mademoiselle  ; 
it  is  not  true." 

"  Liar !  I  heard  you.  You  too 
were  there,  Rennacon,  drunk  and 
truthful,  —  two  events  that  happen  to 
you  once  a  week,  —  thanks  to  Bac- 
chus, not  to  Rennacon.  You  boasted 
that  Braconnier  had  offered  to  change 
with  you  and  give  you  two  thousand 
francs." 

"  I  lied  !  I  lied  !  "  cried  Rennacon, 
eagerly. 

"  Unjust  to  thyself!  it  was  thj' 
half-hour  for  speaking  the  truth." 

"  Now,  mademoiselle,  deign  to  cast 
your  eyes  on  these  parchments. 
These  are  leases.  Grapinet  and  Pe- 
pin and  Braconnier  have  just  signed  ; 
their  rent  is  advanced  thirty  per  cent." 

General  exclamation  of  the  doctor 
and  ladies. 

Looks  of  surprise  and  dismay  from 
the  others. 

"  For  which  favor —  " 

"  He  calls  that  a  fiivor." 

"  They  have  just  paid  me  one  thou- 
sand francs  apiece.  You,  by  your 
own  showing,  can  pay  me  two  thou- 
sand five  hundred  francs  instead  of  a 
thousand.  Now  I  will  make  a  bar- 
gain with  you.  Sign  similar  leases 
here  in  three  minutes,  and  I  will  let 


you  off  for  one  thousand  francs  each  ; 
hesitate,  and  I  will  have  two  thou- 
sand francs." 

"  I  will  not  sign  at  all,  for  one." 

"  Nor  I." 

"  Nor  I." 

Chorus  of  women  :  — 

"  We  will  sign  away  our  live."? 
sooner," 

Edouard  shouted :  — 

"  Jacintha,  —  Jacintha  !  " 

Jacintha  appealed  with  suspicious 

celerity,  the  distance  from  the  kitchen 

to  the  Pleasance  considered. 

'•  Fetch  me  a  good  pen  and  some  ink." 

"  But  they  say  they  will  not  sign," 

said  Laure. 

"  They  will  sign,  mademoiselle. 
Monsieur  Chose,  approach,  —  serve 
the  ejectments." 

The  clerk,  who  had  just  arrived, 
but  stood  aloof,  drew  out  three  slips 
of  stamped  paper,  and  made  three 
steps  forward. 

The  effect  was  like  a  pistol  pre- 
sented at  each  head.  The  whole  party 
set  up  their  throats  :  — 

"  Wait  a  moment,  for  Heaven's 
sake!  Mademoiselle,  it  is  for  you  to 
speak.  This  is  to  usurp  your  place. 
Do  not  let  them  persecute  honest  men, 
who  have  paid  their  rent  faithfully 
they  and  their  forbears  to  you  and 
yours  in  quiet  times  and  troubled  times, 
in  good  harvests  and  bad  harvests." 

"  Messieurs,"  replied  Josephine, 
"  M.  Riviere,  my  good  friend,  has 
deigned  to  act  as  our  agent.  It  would 
be  little  delicate  on  my  part  were  I, 
after  the  trouble  he  has  taken,  to 
interfere  with  his  proceedings.  Set- 
tle then  this  affair  with  him,  who  ap- 
pears to  understand  your  sentiments, 
whereas  my  sister  and  I  we  do  not 
understand  you."  And  she  with- 
drew quietly  a  little  way,  like  an  angel 
gently  evading  moral  pitch. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  ?  is  every  door 
shut  ?  here  is  Jacintha !  In  one 
word,  will  you  sign  or  will  you  not 
sign  1  " 

Jacintha,  with  characteristic  promp- 
titude, took  Riviere's  part,  without 
knowino;  what  it  was  about. 


WHITE  LIES. 


107 


"  0,  they  will  sign  it  fast  enough," 
she  cried.  ""  Come  to  the  scratch,  my 
masters  !  "  cried  she,  cheerfully,  and 
held  out  a  pen. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  mon  Dieu  !  mon  Dleu  ! 
but  where  are  we  to  find  a  tliousand 
francs  1  "  cried  one. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  mon  Dleu  !  mon  Dieu .' 
in  your  left-hand  breeches-pocket/' 
said  Riviere,  laughing. 

"I  see  it  bulge,"  screamed  Ju- 
cintha. 

Three  hands  went  by  a  foolish  im- 

!)ulse  to  three  breeches-pockets,  to 
lide  the  swelling.     It  was  too  late. 

"Allans J"  cried  Jacintha,  like  a 
merry  trumpet,  "come  forth,  five- 
franc  pieces ! " 

'•  It  is  a  sorcerer  then  !  "  cried  one 
of  the  women. 

"  No,  madame,"  said  Riviere,  polite- 
ly, "  it  is  only  an  observer.  You  left 
your  dens  armed  at  all  points.  The 
first  game  was  to  come  here  and 
throw  dust  in  mademoiselle's  cj'cs. 
Had  you  failed  there,  the  thousand 
francs  was  to  bribe  me  to  swindle  my 
principals." 

"  Decidedly  he  is  a  sorcerer  !  My 
good  monsieur,  say  no  more.  We 
sign." 

"They  sign,"  said  the  doctor,  "it 
is  incredible."  And  ho  joined  the 
ladies,  who  were  walking  slowly  up 
and  down  the  Pleasance,  abstaining 
upon  a  principle  of  delicacy  from  in- 
terfering with  Edouard,  but,  as  may 
well  be  supposed,  keenly  though  fur- 
tively attentive. 

When  the  farmers  hud  signed, 
Riviere  signed  the  duplicates. 

"  Are  we  not  to  have  your  name  to 
it,  mademoiselle  ?  "  asked  a  farmer. 

Josephine  moved  towai'd  Riviere, 
thinking  he  might  require  her. 

"  No !  "  he  cried,  haughtily.  "  / 
have  got  her  name  on  this  authority, 
but  my  name  is  good  enough  for  you. 
She  shall  not  sign,  and  you  shall  not 
speak  to  her.  You  may  look  at  her  : 
that  is  no  small  thing.  Good !  you 
have  looked  at  her.  Now  decamp, 
rogues  and  jades." 

They  went  off  muttering.     They 


felt  deeply  wronged.  Eacli  a  shade 
more  so  than  the  other.  Rennacon 
vented  the  general  sentiment  of  ill 
usage  thus :  — 

"  Cursed  be  interlopers  !  Another 
year  or  two  and  I  should  have  put 
aside  enough  to  buy  my  farm  :  it  will 
take  me  ten  years  at  this  rate." 

"  Come,  Jacintha,  hold  your  apron 
for  the  bags ;  lock  them  in  one  of 
your  cupboards.     Away  with  you." 

Then  his  friends  all  came  round 
Edouard,  and  shook  his  hand  warmly, 
and  thanked  him  with  glistening  eyes 
again  and  again  and  again,  Laure 
and  all. 

Now  this  young  gentleman  was  so 
formed  that,  if  one  did  not  see  his 
merit,  he  swelled  with  bumptiousness  . 
like  a  peacock,  but  if  one  praised  him 
too  much,  straightway  he  compared 
himself  with  his  beau  ideal,  his  model, 
say  the  Chevalier  Bayard,  and  turned 
modest  and  shame-faced  :  so  now  he 
hung  his  head  and  stammered  as  they 
showered  praise  and  admiration  on 
him.  And  this  was  pleasing  and 
pretty  by  contrast  with  his  late  tre- 
mendous arrogance  and  rudeness. 

It  struck  them  all. 

"No  more  words,"  said  Josephine, 
"  they  make  him  blush.  I  crown 
him.  Run,  Laure,  and  bring  me 
some  bay  leaves." 

"  No !  mcsdemoiselles  !  no  !  there  is 
more  work  to  be  done  before  I  dare 
triumph.  I  must  take  your  money 
down  to  the  town,  and  pay  that  cred- 
itor off.  Then  my  heart  will  be  at 
ease  about  you  all,  and  then  I  confess 
I  should  like  to  wear  a  crown  —  for 
half  an  hour." 

"  Come  back  to  supper,  Edouard, 
and  wear  it." 

"  O,  thank  you." 

"  Tliere  he  goes  without  being 
measured,  the  giddy  child.  Take  otf 
your  hat,  monsieur." 

Then  there  was  a  mysterious  glid- 
ing of  soft  palms  and  delicate  fingers 
about  his  brow  and  head,  and  the 
latter  was  announced  to  be  measured. 
And    O    reader,    what     botheration 


108 


WHITE  LIES. 


might  be  Scaved  if  every  man  was 
measured  before  a  crown  was  clapped 
on  him  !     He  is  for  a  hat. 

"  They  can  measure  the  outside," 
said  the  doctor,  saucily;  "their  art 
goes  so  far." 

Edouard  ran  off. 

"  He  quits  us  every  minute,"  said 
Laure  to  Josephine ;  "  that  is  why  I 
detest  him." 

"  You  don't  detest  him,"  objected 
the  doctor,  as  gravely  as  if  he  was 
announcing  a  fact  in  physics. 

"That  is  why  I  like  him,  then," 
said  saucebox. 

Edouard  ran  to  Jacintlia  for  two 
out  of  the  three  money-bags,  took 
them  home,  converted  the  six  thou- 
sand francs  into  bank  paper  (not 
assignats),  and  pelted  down  to  the 
town. 

He  went  at  once  to  his  notary  to 
ask  him  what  forms  were  to  be  com- 
plied with  in  discharging  the  creditor. 
To  this  question,  asked  with  eager- 
ness and  agitation,  the  notary  an- 
swered with  perfect  coolness  :  — 

"  The  thing  to  do  now  is  to  take 
the  money  to  the  mayor.  Perhaps 
you  had  better  go  to  him  at  once  :  on 
your  return  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you." 

Edouard  ran  to  the  Mairie ;  in 
front  of  it  he  found  some  forty  or 
fifty  idlers  collected,  and  gaping  at  a 
placard  on  the  wall. 

Edouard's  eyes  followed  theirs  care- 
lessly, and  saw  a  sight  that  turned 
him  cold,  and  took  the  pith  out  of  his 
body. 

A  great  staring  notice,  the  paste 
behind  which  was  scarce  dry,  glared 
him  in  the  fixce. 

"For  sale.  The  lands  of 
Beaurepaire,  with  the  chateau 
and  other  the  buildings  mes- 
suages and  tenements. 

"At        THE  REQUISITION         OF 

Jacques  Bonard,  creditor.  Bv 
order  of  the  directory, 

"  Armand,   Mayor." 

This  was   the  brightest  afternoon 


Beaurepaire  liud  seen  for  years.  These 
young  women,  whose  lives  had  so  few 
pleasures,  denied  themselves  the  lux- 
ury of  telling  their  mother  the  family 
triumph.  Unselfish  and  innocent, 
they  kept  so  sacred  a  pleasure  for 
their  friend. 

But,  though  their  words  were 
guarded,  their  bird-like  notes  and 
bright  glances  were  free,  and  chirped 
and  beamed  in  tune  with  their  hearts. 
Their  very  breatii  was  perfumed  guy- 
ety  and  hope. 

And  the  baroness  felt  herself  breath- 
ing a  lighter,  brighter,  and  more  mu- 
sical air.  bhe  said  :  "  Are  better 
days  in  store,  my  children  1  For  to- 
day, I  know  not  how  or  why,  the 
cloud  seems  less  heavy  on  us  all." 

"  So  it  does,  mamma,"  cried  Laure. 
"  I  smile  at  Josephine,  and  Josephine 
smiles  at  me,  and  neither  of  us  have 
the  least  idea  why,  —  have  we,  my 
elder  ?  and  here  is  your  coffee,  dear, 
dear  mamma." 

"  Good  !  and  what  an  aroma  this 
has  too,  to-day  ;  and  a  flavor  ?  if  thi^ 
is  from  Arabia,  what  I  have  been 
drinking  for  months  must  have  been 
a  nearer  neighbor,  I  think." 

"  Let  me  taste,  mamma,"  said 
Laure.  She  tasted  and  was  thunder- 
struck. She  took  occasion  to  draw 
Josephine  into  the  dark  part  of  the 
room.  "  Some  one  has  been  drug- 
ging my  coft'ee,  —  it  tastes  of  Mocha, 
—  was  it  you,  love  1  —  traitress,  I 
mean  1  —  tell  me,  dear." 

"  No.     Guess." 

"  That  is  enough,  the  imp  !  !   I  Ml." 

"  I  would,"  replied  Josephine.  "  He 
said  to  me,  '  Mademoiselle  Laure  de- 
ceives her  mother  :  let  us  deceive  hei'.' 
T  told  him  I  would  betray  him,  and  I 
have  kept  my  word." 

"  Yes,  after  cheating  me  :  double 
traitress  !  !  kiss  me,  quick  !  quick  !  !  " 

Supper  was  ready.     No  Edouard. 

His  crown  of  bay  leaves  was  on  the 
table  :  but  no  Edouard.  They  were 
beginning  to  fear  he  would  not  come 
at  all,  when  he  arrived  in  haste,  and 
sank    into   a  chair,    fatigued    partly 


WHITE   LIES. 


109 


by  a  long  day's  work,  partly  by  the 
emotions  he  hail  passed  through. 
Thiougli  all  this  peeped  an  aU'  of  self- 
content. 

"  Forgive  inc,  madame,  —  it  has 
been  a  long  day." 

"  Repose  yourself,  monsieur,"  said 
the  baroness,  ceremoniously.  She  was 
not  best  pleased  at  his  making  him- 
self so  at  home.  "  Or  ratlier  let  us 
offer  you  something  to  restore  you." 

"  Nothing,  madame,  but  a  tumbler 
of  wine  with  a  little  water, — thank 
you,  madame.  Mesdames,  great 
events  have  occurred  since  I  left 
you." 

"  O,  tell !  tell !  "  Eyes  bright  as 
sword-blades  in  the  sun  with  interest 
and  curiosity  were  fastened  on  him, 
and  their  lovely  proprietors  held  their 
breath  to  hear  him. 

He  glanced  round  with  secret  satis- 
faction, paused,  relished  tlieir  curios- 
ity, and  then  began  his  story. 

He  told  them  how  he  rode  down  to 
the  town,  and  went  to  his  notary  : 
here  he  explained  that,  being  at  war 
with  a  notary,  he  liad  been  compelled 
in  common  prudence  to  enlist  a  nota- 
ry :  and  his  notary  had  sent  him  to 
the  Mairie,  and  there  he  had  seen  a 
placard  offering  the  chateau  and  lands 
of  Beaurcpaire  for  sale. 

"  O  Heaven  !  0  Edouard  !  " 

"  Be  calm,  —  there,  I  meant  to 
keep  you  a  moment  or  two  in  sus- 
pense, but  I  have  not  the  heart.  I 
went  into  the  Mairie  :  I  saw  the  may- 
or :  it  was  Bonard's  doing,  set  on,  of 
course,  iiy  Perrin  :  I  paid  your  six 
thousand  francs  into  the  mayor's 
hands  for  Bonard.  Hero,  ladies,  is 
the  mayor's  receipt ;  from  that  mo- 
ment Beaurcpaire  was  yours  again, 
and  that  accursed  placard  mine.  I 
tore  it  down  before  all  the  crowd ; 
they  cheered  me." 

"  Heaven  bless  them  !  "  cried  the 
doctor. 

"Dard  was  there  in  his  donkey 
cart :  he  put  his  cap  on  his  crutch, 
and  waved  it  in  tlie  air,  and  cried : 
'Long  live  the  Baroness  and  the 
Demoiselles   de    Beaurcpaire '  :    and 


they  all  joined,  — aha! — well,  as  I 
made  my  way  through  the  crowd, 
who   should  I  run  against  but  Per- 


nn  ! 


I  " 


"  The  wretch." 

"  The  pieces  of  the  placard  were  in 
my  hand  :  I  hurled  them  with  all  my 
force  into  the  animal's  face." 

"  O  you  good  boy ! " 

"  It  was  the  act  of  a  young  man." 

"  You  are  right,  monsieur :  I  am 
almost  sorry  I  did  it." 

"  Monsieur  Edouard,"  cried  the 
baroness,  rising,  the  tears  in  her 
eyes,  "  I  scarcely  understand  all  you 
are  doing,  and  have  done  for  us  :  "but 
this  I  comprehend,  that  you  are  a 
worthy  young  man  ;  and  that  I  have 
not  till  now  had  the  discernment  to 
see  all  your  value  !  " 

"  0  madame,  do  not  speak  to  me 
so  :  it  makes  me  ashamed  :  let  me 
continue  my  story." 

"  Yes  !  but  first  tell  me,  this  six 
thousand  francs, — O,  how  my  heart 
beats  !  O  my  cliildrcn,  how  near 
ruin  we  have  been,  —  0  dear !  O 
dear  !  " 

"  Dear  mamma,  do  not  tremble  :  it 
is  all  our  own,  thanks  to  our  guardian 
angel,"  said  Josephine.  "  Edouard,  I 
think  our  mother  wishes  to  learn  how 
we  came  to  have  so  much  money." 

"  What,  have  you  not  told  iieV  ?  " 

"  No  !  Laurc  said  you  should  have 
that  pleasiu-c  :  it  was  your  right." 

"Ah!  thank  you,  IMademoiselle 
Laure,"  cried  the  j'oung  man,  very 
warmly.  "  Madame,  the  tenants  paid 
you  seven  thousand  francs  to-day  for 
leases  at  a  rent  raised  thirty  per  cent 
from  this  day." 

"  Lowered,  my  child,  you  mean." 

"  No,  thank  you,  raised." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  —  the  good  crea- 
tures ! !  " 

"  Eh  1  ah  !  humph  !  yes  !  " 

"  But  is  it  really  true  ?  Can  this  be 
true  1 " 

"  Jacintha  holds  a  thousand  francs 
at  your  disposal,  madame,  and  this 
receipt  is  your  voucher  for  the  other 
six  thousand  ;  and  the  leases  signed 
are  in  the  house." 


no 


whitp:  lies. 


"  And  these  arc  the  people  you  had 
hard  thoughts  of,  mousicur." 

"  See  how  unjust  I  was  ! ! !  " 

"  Did  they  volunteer  all  this  1 " 

"  Not  exactly.  It  was  proposed  to 
them,  and  within  three  days  — " 

"They  fell  into  it?" 

"  They  fell  into  it." 

"  May  Heaven  reward  them  !  " 

"  Humph  ! " 

"As  they  deserve." 

"  Amen  !  amen  !  " 

"  Such  actions  do  the  heart  good 
as  well  as  the  house.  I  cannot  hut 
be  affected  by  the  sympathy  of  these 
humble  people,  who  have  known  how 
to  show  their  good  feeling,  and,  may  I 
venture  to  say,  their  gratitude." 

"  Call  it  by  any  fine  name  you 
please,  madame ;  they  will  not  con- 
tradict you." 

"  Their  gratitude,  tlien,  at  a  mo- 
ment when  it  was  so  needed.  After 
all,  the  world  is  not  so  ill.  I  seem  to 
have  gone  back  to  the  days  of  my 
youth,  when  such  things  were  common. 
Ah  !  how  happy  I  am  !  and  how  much 
I  tliank  you  for  it,  my  young  friend." 

Riviere  hung  his  head. 

"  May  I  continue  my  story  1 " 

"  0  yes,"  cried  Laure,  "  pray  go 
on.  I  guess  you  went  next  to  the 
honest  notary." 

"  The  what  ?  ?  1 !  " 

"  The  notary  that  is  on  our  side." 

"  I  did,  and  what  do  you  think  iiis 
news  was  ?  That  for  two  days  past 
Perrin  had  been  at  him  to  lend  him 
money  upon  Bcaurepaire." 

"  And  he  did  not  turn  him  out  of 
the  room  ?  " 

"  No ;  he  spoke  him  fair." 

"  But  I  thought  he  was  our  friend." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort.  He  is  our 
notary.  Perhaps  all  the  better  servant 
for  having  no  heart,  and  tlicrefore  no 
temper.  He  had  been  very  civil  to 
Perrin,  had  promised  to  try  and  get 
him  the  money,  and  so  was  keeping 
him  from  going  elsewhere.  Oh  !  this 
glacier  gave  me  wiser  advice  than 
flesh  and  blood  could  have  given.  I 
am  never  five  minutes  with  Picard, 
but  I  come  away  iced  and  wiser." 


Laure.   "  And  wickeder." 

Edouard  (with  sublime  indiffer- 
ence). "  Clearly.  He  said,  'I  have  a 
hundred  and  twenty  thousand  francs : 
I  will  lend  you  them  on  Beaurepaire. 
Go  to  some  other  capitalist  for  a  sim- 
ilar sum.  The  total  will  pay  all  the 
debts.  Capitalists  will  not  refuse  you  : 
for,  observe,  this  rise  in  the  rents  plus 
the  six  thousand  francs  you  have  paid 
off  alters  the  face  of  the  security  and 
leaves  a  fair  margin.  Get  the  money 
while  I  amuse  Perrin  with  false  hopes.' 
Here  was  a  stroke  of  policy  beyond 
poor  little  Edouard  Riviere  to  have 
invented.  Notary  cut  notary  !  !  So 
to-morrow  I  ride  to  Commandant 
Raynal  for  a  week's  leave  of  absence, 
and  the  next  day  I  ride  to  my  uncle, 
and  beg  iiim  to  lend  a  hundred  and 
twenty  thousand  francs  on  Beaure- 
paire. He  can  do  it  if  he  likes.  Yet 
his  estate  is  scarce  half  so  large  as 
yours,  and  not  half  so  rich,  but  he  has 
never  let  any  one  share  it  with  him. 
'  I  '11  have  no  go-between,'  says  he, 
'  to  impoverish  us  both ' " 

"  Both  whom  1 " 

"  Self  and  soil,  —  ha  !  ha  !  '  The 
soil  is  always  grateful,'  says  my  uncle, 
— '  makes  you  a  return  in  exact  pro- 
portion to  what  you  bestow  on  it  in 
the  way  of  manure  and  labor,  —  men 
don't.'  Says  he,  '  the  man  that  has 
got  one  hand  in  your  pocket  shakes 
the  other  fist  in  your  face ;  the  man 
that  has  got  both  hands  in  your  pocket 
spits  in  your  face.'  Asking  excuse  of 
you,  madame,  for  quoting  my  uncle, 
who  is  honest  and  shrewd,  but  little 
polished.  He  is  also  a  bit  of  a  misan- 
thrope, and  has  colored  me  :  this  you 
must  have  observed." 

"  But  if  he  is  misanthrope,  Mon- 
sieur Edouard,  he  will  not  sympathize 
with  us,  — will  he  not  despise  us,  who 
have  so  mismanaged  Bcaurepaire?  " 

"  Permit  me,  Josephine,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  Natural  history  steps  in 
here,  and  teaches  by  me,  its  mouth- 
piece, —  ahem !  A  misanthrope  hates 
all  mankind,  but  is  kind  to  everybody, 
generally  too  kind.  A  philanthrope 
loves  the  whole  human  race,  but  dis- 


WHITE  LIES. 


Ill 


likes  his  wife,  liis  mother,  his  brother, 
and  his  friends  and  acquaintances. 
Misanthrope  is  the  potato, — rough 
and  repulsive  outside,  but  good  to  the 
core.  Philanthrope  is  a  peach,  —  his 
manner  all  velvet  and  bloom,  and  his 
words  sweet  juice,  but  his  heart  of 
hearts  a  stone.  Let  me  read  philan- 
thrope's book,  and  full  into  ilie  hands 
of  misanthrope." 

"  He  is  right,  ladies.  My  uncle  will 
say  plenty  of  biting  words,  which,  by 
the  l)y,  will  not  liurt  you,  who  will 
not  iiear  them, — only  me.  He  will 
lash  us  and  lend  us  the  money,  and 
BeaurepairC  will  be  free  :  and  I  shall 
have  had  some  little  hand  in  it,  — 
hurrah ! " 

"  Some  little  hand  in  it,  good 
angel  that  Heaven  has  sent  us !  " 
said  Josephine. 

Then  came  a  delicious  hour  to  Ed- 
ouard  Riviere.  Young  and  old  poured 
out  their  glowing  thanks  and  praises 
upon  him  till  his  cheeks  burned  like 
fire. 

Josephine.  "  And,  besides,  he  raises 
our  spirits  so :  does  he  not,  my 
mother?  Now,  is  not  the  house 
changed  of  late,  doctor?  I  appeal 
to  vou." 

St.  Attbin.  "  I  offer  a  frigid  expla- 
nation. Among  the  feats  of  science 
is  the  infusion  of  blood.  I  have  seen 
it  done.  Boiling  blood  from  the  veins 
of  the  healthy  and  the  young  is  in- 
jected into  old  or  languid  vessels. 
The  effect  is  magical.  Well,  Beaure- 
paire  was  old  and  languishing.  Life's 
warm  current  etitered  it  with  Ed- 
ouard ;  its  languid  pulses  beat,  and 
its  system  swells  and  throbs,  and  its 
heart  is  warm  once  more,  and  leaps 
with  the  blood  of  youth,  and  dances  in 
the  sunshine  of  iiope  :  I  also  am  young 
again,  like  all  the  rest.  Madame  the 
baroness,  gavotlons  !  —  you  and  I,  — 
tra  la  la  la  lab,  tra  la  la  la  lah  !  " 

Txiure.  "  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  Down 
with  science,  doctor." 

St.  Auhin.  "  What  impiety  !  Some 
one  will  say,  down  with  young  ladies 
next." 

Laure.  "  No  !    That  would  be  pun- 


ishing themselves.  Hear  my  solution 
of  the  mystery.  Injection  of  blood 
and  infusion  there  is  none.  Monsieur 
is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  merry 
imp  that  has  broken  into  paradise." 

Josephine.  "  The  fine  paradise  that 
it  was  before  the  imp  came.  No  :  it 
is  that  a  man  has  come  among  a  par- 
cel of  weak  women,  and  put  spirit 
into  them." 

St.  Auhin.  "  Also  into  an  old  use- 
less dreamer  worth  but  little." 

Josephine.  "  Fie  then !  It  was  you 
who  read  him  at  sight.  We  babble, 
and  he  remains  uncrowned." 

Edouard.  "  No  !  no  !  Tiierc  arc 
no  more  Kings  in  France  !  " 

Josephine.  "  Excuse  me,  there  is 
the  King  of  Hearts  !  And  wc  are 
going  to  crown  him.  Come,  Laure. 
Mamma,  since  monsieur  has  become 
diffident,  would  it  be  very  wrong  of 
us  to  use  force  just  a  little  ?  " 

"  No,  provided  monsieur  permits 
.it,"  said  the  baroness,  with  some  hesi- 
tation. 

Laughter  like  a  chime  of  bells  fol- 
lowed this  speech,  and  to  that  sweet 
music  Riviere,  spite  of  his  mock  dis- 
sent, was  crowned.  And  in  that 
magic  circlet  the  young  Apollo's 
beauty  shone  out  bright  as  a  star. 

The  green  crown  set  off  the  rich 
chestnut  hair,  the  shapely  head,  the 
rich  glowing  cheek,  and  the  delicate 
white  brow.  Blushes  mantled  on  his 
face,  and  triumph  beamed  in  his  ar- 
dent eyes.  He  adorned  his  crown  in 
turn. 

"  Is  it  permitted  to  be  so  handsome 
as  that?  "  inquired  the  baroness,  with 
astonishment. 

"  And  to  be  as  good  as  pretty  ?  " 
cried  Josephine. 

Whilst  he  thus  sat  in  well-earned 
triumph,  central  pearl  set  round  by 
loving  eyes  and  happy  fiices  that  he 
had  made  shine,  Jacintha  came  in  and 
gave  him  a  letter. 

"  Dard  brought  it  up  from  the 
town,"  said  she. 

Edouard,  after  asking  permission, 
opened  the  letter,  and  the  brii,'iit  color 
ebbed  froni  his  cheek. 


112 


WHITE   LIES. 


"  No  ill  news,  I  trust ! "  said  the 
baroness,  kindly.  "  No  relation,  no 
friend— " 

"  No,  madamc,"  said  the  young  man. 
"  Nothing  serious  ;  a  temporary  an- 
noyance. Do  not  let  it  disturb  your 
happiness  for  a  moment."  And  with 
these  words  he  dismissed  the  subject, 
and  was  very  gay  and  rather  louder 
than  before. 

Soon  after  he  took  his  leave.  He 
went  into  the  kitchen,  and,  alter  a  few 
earnest  words  with  Jacintha,  went 
into  the  stable  and  gave  his  hor»e  a 
feed. 

The  baroness  retired  to  rest.  In 
taking  leave  of  them  all,  she  kissed 
Laure  with  more  than  usual  warmth, 
and,  putting  her  out  at  arm's  length, 
examined  her,  then  kissed  her  again. 

"  Stay,  doctor,"  said  Josephine,  who 
was  about  to  retire  too.  "  What  is 
it?     What  can  it  be?" 

"  Some  family  matter,"  he  said. 

"  No  !  no  !  Did  you  not  see  what 
a  struggle  tiie  poor  boy  went  through 
the  moment  he  read  it ;  he  took  off 
his  crown  too,  and  sighed,  O  so  sadly, 
as  he  laid  it  down." 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Jacintha, 
softly,  at  the  door,  "  may  he  come  in  !  " 

"  Yes  !  —  yes  !  " 

Edouard  came  sadly. 

"  Is  she  gone  to  bed  happy  1  " 

"  Yes,  dear!  thanks  to  you,  and  we 
will  be  firm.    Keep  nothing  from  us." 

Edouard  just  gave  her  the  letter, 
and  leaned  his  head  sorrowfully  on 
his  hand. 

They  all  read  it  together.  It  was 
from  Picard.  Perrin,  it  seems,  had 
already  purchased  one  of  the  claims 
on  Beaurepaire,  value  sixty  thousand 
francs,  and  now  demanded  in  his  own 
name  the  sale  of  the  property,  upon 
the  general  order  from  the  directory. 
The  mayor  had  consented,  and  the 
affiche  was  even  now  in  the  printer's 
hands.     The  letter  continued  :  — 

"  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  you  insulted 
Perrin,  at  this  st<if/e  of  the  business. 
Had  you  consulted  us  on  this  point,  ice 
should  liuve  adcised  you  not  to  take  any 
steps  vf  that  sort  until  after  the  estate 


should  be  absolutely  safe.  We  think  he 
must  hare  followed  you  to  our  place  and 
so  learned  that  you  are  our  clierd  in  this 
matter,  for  he  has  sent  a  line  to  say  he 
ivill  not  trouble  us,  but  will  get  the  money 
elsewhere." 

"  That  is  what  cuts  me  to  the 
heart !  "  cried  Edouard.  "  It  is  I  who 
ruin  you  after  all.  Oh  !  how  hard 
it  is  for  a  young  man  to  be  wise  !  " 

The  girls  came  and  sat  beside 
Edouard,  and,  without  speaking,  glid- 
ed each  a  kind  hand  into  his.  The 
doctor  finished  the  letter. 

"  But  if  you  ivill  send  medown  the  new 
leases  in  a  parcel,  we  shall  pei'haps  be 
able  to  put  a  spoke  in  his  wheel  still ; 
meantime,  we  udcise  you  to  lose  no  time 
in  raising  a  hundred  and  twenty  thousand 
francs.  We  reneio  our  offer  of  a  simi- 
lar sum  :  but  you  must  give  us  three 
days'  notice." 

"  Good  by,  then." 

"  Stay  a  little  longer." 

"  No  !  I  am  miserable  till  I  i-epair 
my  folly." 

"  We  will  comfort  you." 

"  Nothing  can  comfort  me,  but  re- 
pairing the  ill  I  have  done." 

"  The  ill  you  have  done  !  But  for 
vou,  all  would  have  been  over  long 
ago  I " 

"  Thank  you  for  saying  that,  —  oh  ! 
thank  you:  will  you  see  me  off?  I 
feel  a  little  daunted,  —  for  the  mo- 
ment." 

"  Poor  boy,  ves,  wc  will  see  vou 
off" 

They  w^ent  down  with  him.  He 
brought  his  horse  round,  and  they 
walked  together  to  the  garden  gate  in 
silence. 

As  he  put  his  foot  in  the  stirrap, 
Josephine  murmured  :  "  Do  not  vex 
yourself,  little  heart.  Sleep  )vell 
to-night  after  all  your  fatigues,  and 
come  to  us  early  in  the  morning." 

Edouard  checked  his  horse,  who 
wanted  to  start  ;  and  turning  in  the 
saddle  cried  out  with  surprise  :  "  Why, 
where  do  you  think  I  am  going  ?  " 

"  Home,  to  be  sure." 

"  Home  ?  while  Beaurepaire  is  in 
peril ;  sleep   while   Beaurepaire  is  in 


WHITE  LIES. 


113 


peril !  What !  don't  you  see  I  am 
going-  to  my  uncle,  twenty  leagues 
from  here." 

"  Yes,  but  not  now." 

"  What  ?  fling  away  half  a  day  !  — 
no,  not  an  hour,  a  minute ;  the  enemy 
is  too  keen,  the  stake  is  too  great." 

"But  think,  Ed — Monsieur  Ed- 
ouard,"  said  Laure,  "  you  are  so  tired." 

"  I  was.     But  I  am  not  now." 

"  But,  mon  Dieu  !  you  will  kill  youi'- 
self,  —  one  does  not  travel  on  horse- 
back in  the  dark  by  night." 

"  Mademoiselle,  the  night  and  the 
day  are  all  one  to  a  man  when  he  can 
serve  those  he  loves."  With  the  very 
words  his  impatient  heel  pricked  the 
willing  horse,  who  started  forward, 
striking  fire  in  the  night  from  the 
stones  with  his  iron  heels,  that  a  mo- 
ment after  rang  clear  and  sharp  down 
the  road.  They  listened  to  the  sounds 
as  they  struck,  and  echoed  along,  and 
then  rang  fainter  and  fainter  and 
fainter,  in  the  still  night.  When  at 
list  they  could  hear  him  no  more, 
they  went  slowly  and  sadly  back  to 
the  chateau.     Laure  was  in  tears. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

The  French  league  in  those  days 
was  longer  than  now ;  it  was  full 
three  miles  English.  Edouard  baited 
his  horse  twenty  miles  from  Beaure- 
paire :  he  then  rode  the  other  forty 
miles  judiciously,  but  without  a  halt. 

He  reached  his  uncle's  at  three  in 
the  morning  :  put  his  horse  in  the 
stable,  and,  not  to  disturb  the  inmates, 
got  in  by  the  kitchen  window,  which 
he  found  left  open  as  in  the  golden 
age :  the  kitchen  fire  was  smoulder- 
ing; he  made  it  up,  and  dropped 
asleep  on  a  chair  as  hard  —  as  hard 
as  a  philanthropist's  heart,  doctor. 
He  seemed  to  have  been  scarce  a  min- 
ute asleep,  when  Red  Indijins  screech- 
ing all  around  woke  him  with  a  start, 
and  there  stood  his  uncle's  house- 
keeper, who  screamed  again  at  his 
jumping  up,  but  died  away  into  an 


uncertain  quaver,  and  from  that  rose 
crescendo  to  a  warm  welcome. 

"  But.  saints  defend  us,  how  you 
frightened  me !  " 

"  You  had  your  revenge.  1 
thought  a  legion  of  fiends  were  yell- 
ing right  into  my  ear.  My  uncle,  — • 
is  he  up  1  " 

"Your  uncle!  What,  don't  you 
know?" 

"No  !  how  should  I  know?  What 
is  the  matter  ?  O  heaven,  he  is 
dead  ! " 

"  Dead  ?  No  !  Would  he  die  like 
that,  without  settling  his  affairs  ?  No, 
but  he  is  gone." 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  We  don't  know.  Took  one 
shirt,  a  razor,  and  a  comb,  and  off 
without  a  word, — just  like  him." 

Edouard  groaned. 

"  When  did  he  go  ?  " 

"  Yesterday,  at  noon." 

Edouard  swore. 

"  O,  don't  vex  yourself  like  that, 
Master  Edouard." " 

"  But,  Marthe,  it  is  life  and  death. 
I  shall  go  mad  !     I  shall  go  mad  !  " 

"No,  don't  ye,  —  don't  ye;  bless 
you!  he  will  come  back  before 
long." 

"  So  he  will,  Marthe ;  he  must 
be  back  to  dav,  —  he  took  but  one 
shirt." 

"  Hum  !  "  said  Marthe,  doubtfully, 
"  that  does  not  follow.  I  have  seen 
him  wear  a  shirt  a  good  deal  more 
than  a  day." 

Edouard  walked  up  and  down  the 
kitchen  in  great  agitation.  To  spir- 
its of  his  kind  to  be  compelled  to  be 
passive  and  wait  for  others,  unable  to 
do  anything  for  themselves,  is  their 
worst  torture  ;  it  is  fever  plus  paral- 
ysis. 

The  pood  woman  soothed  him  and 
coaxed  him. 

"  Have  a  cup  of  coffee.  See,  —  I 
have  warmed  it,  and  the  milk  and  all." 

"  Thank  you,  my  good  Marthe. 
I  have  the  appetite  of  a  wolf." 

"  And  after  that  go  to  bed,  and  the 
moment  your  uncle  comes  I  will 
wake  you." 


114 


WHITE  LIES. 


"  Ah  !  thank  you,  good  Marthe. 
O  yes ;  hed  by  all  means.  Better 
be  asleep  than  twiddling  one'g  thumbs 
awake." 

So  Marthe  got  him  to  bed ;  and, 
once  there,  Nature  prevailed,  and  he 
slept  twelve  hours  at  a  stretch. 

Just  at  sunset  he  awoke,  and  took 
it  for  sunrise.  lie  dressed  himself 
hastily  and  came  down.  His  uncle 
liad  not  arrived.  He  did  not  know 
what  on  earth  to  do.  He  had  a  pre- 
sentiment that  while  his  hands  were 
tied  the  enemy  was  working. 

"  And  if  not,"  said  he,  "  why,  tlien, 
chance  is  robbing  me  of  the  advan- 
tage zeal  ought  to  be  gaining  me." 

"  Wait  till  to-morrow,"  said  Mar- 
the ;  "  if  he  does  not  come  I  shall 
have  a  letter." 

Edouard  sat  down  and  wrote  a  line 
to  Doctor  St.  Aubin,  telling  him  his 
ill  luck,  and  begging  the  doctor  to 
send  down  the  leases  to  Picard,  as  he 
had  requested. 

"  ricard  is  wiser  than  I  am,"  said 
he. 

The  morning  came,  —  no  letter. 
Then  Edouard  had  another  anxiety, 
—  he  was  away  from  his  post.  Com- 
mandant Raynal  was  a  Tartar.  He 
had  better  ride  over  and  ask  for  a 
week's  leave  of  absence ;  and  now 
was  the  time  to  do  it.  On  his  return 
perhaps  his  uncle  would  be  at  home. 

"  Yes  !  I  '11  saddle  Mirabeau  and 
ride  over,  tiien  I  shall  not  be  twid- 
dling my  thumbs  all  day." 

Commandant  Raynal  lived  about 
half-way  between  his  uncle's  farm 
and  Beaurepaire. 

As  Edouard  came  in  sight  of  the 
house  a  dun  pony  was  standing 
voluntarily  by  tlie  door,  and  presently 
the  notary  issued  forth,  got  into  the 
saddle,  and  ambled  towards  Edouard. 
Edouard  felt  a  chill  at  sight  of  him, 
but  this  was  soon  followed  by  a  burn- 
ing heat  and  a  raging  desire  to  go  at 
him  like  the  whirlwind,  and  ride  both 
him  and  his  beast  of  a  pony  into  the 
dust. 

He  was  obliged  to  keep  saying  to 
himself,  "  Wait  a  day  or  two,  wait  a 


day  or  two,"  and  did  not  trust  him- 
self to  look  at  the  man  as  they  passed 
one  another. 

The  other  looked  at  him,  though, 
through  his  half-open  lids,  a  glance 
of  bitter  malignity.  Meeting  his  ene- 
my so  suddenly,  and  at  his  comman- 
dant's house,  discomposed  Edouard 
greatly,  perplexed  him  greatly. 

"  Can  these  notaries  divine  one's 
very  plans  before  they  are  formed  ?  " 
said  he  to  himself ;  "can  these  prac- 
tised villains  ?  —  no.  He  has  come 
here  simply  to  do  me  some  general 
mischief,  to  set  my  commandant 
against  me :  he  has  timed  the  attack 
well,  now  that  I  have  a  favor  to  ask 
him,  and  he  such  a  disciplinarian." 

Edouard  came  before  Raynal  de- 
spondently, and  after  the  usual  greet- 
ing said:  — 

"  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  you,  com- 
mandant." 

"  Speak ! "  rang  out  the  com- 
mandant. 

"  A  short  leave  of  absence  1 " 

"  Humph ! " 

"  On  pressing  affairs  :  0  monsieur, 
do  not  refuse  mo  ? " 

"  Who  tells  you  that  I  shall  re- 
fuse you  ?  "  asked  tlic  commandant, 
roughly. 

"  No  one,  monsieur,  but  I  have 
enemies  :  and  I  feared  one  of  them 
might  have  lately  maligned  me  be- 
hind my  back." 

"  Citizen  Riviere,"  replied  the 
other,  sternly,  "if  a  man  came  to 
me  to  accuse  any  one  of  my  officers 
behind  his  back,  I  should  send  for 
that  officer  and  say  to  his  accuser: 
'  Now  there  is  the  man,  look  him  in 
the  face  and  say  your  say.'  " 

"  I  was  a  fool,"  cried  the  young 
man  :  "  my  noble  commandant  —  " 

"  Enough  !  "  said  the  commandant, 
rudely.  "  Nobody  has  ever  said  a 
word  against  you  in  my  hearing.  It 
is  true,"  he  added  satirically,  "  very 
few  have  ever  mentioned  you  at  all." 

"  My  name  has  not  been  mentioned 
to  you  to-day,  commandant?  " 

"  No  !  —  halt !  "  cried  the  exact 
soldier,  "  except  by  the  servant  who 


WHITE  LIFS. 


115 


announced  you.  Read  that  despatch 
wliilc  I  yive  an  order  outside'?  " 

Edouard  read  the  despatch,  and  tlie 
blood  rushed  to  his  brow  at  one  sen- 
tence in  it:  "Edouard  Riviere  is  act- 
ive, zealous,  and  punctual.  In  six 
months  more  you  can  safely  promote 
him."  This  was  all :  but  not  a 
creature  besides  was  praised  at  all. 

The  commandant  returned. 

"  O  commandant,  what  goodness !  " 

"  Citizen,  I  rose  from  tiie  ranks,  — 
howl  — guess  !  " 

"  By  valor,by  chivalry,by  Spart — " 

"  Gammon !  —  by  minding  my 
business :  there  is  the  riddle  key : 
and  that  is  why  my  eye  is  on  those 
who  mind  tlieir  business,  —  you  arc 
one  ;  I  have  praised  you  for  it,  — so, 
now,  how  many  days  do  you  want  to 
waste  ?     Speak." 

"  A  few,  a  very  few." 

"  Are  ye  in  love  ■?  That  is 
enough,  —  you  are,  —  more  fool  you. 
Is  it  to  go  after  lier  you  fall  to  the 
rear  ?  " 

"No  indeed,  commandant." 

"  Look  me  in  the  face  !  Tliere  are 
but  two  men  in  the  world,  —  the  man 
who  keeps  his  word,  and  the  man 
who  breaks  it.  The  first  is  an  hon- 
est man,  the  second  is  a  liar,  and 
waiting  to  be  a  thief;  if  it  is  to  run 
after  a  girl,  take  a  week :  anything 
else,  a  fortnight.  No  !  no  thanks ! 
I  have  not  time  for  chit  -  chat. 
March." 

Edouard  rode  away  in  triumph. 

"  Long  live  the  Commandant  Ray- 
nal !  "  he  shouted.  "  He  is  not  flesh 
and  blood.  He  is  metal :  he  rings, 
loud  and  true.  His  words  are  not 
words,  they  are  notes  of  some  golden 
trumpet ;  and  after  being  with  him 
five  minutes  one  feels  like  beating  all 
the  notaries  on  earth." 

He  readied  his  uncle's  place. 

"  Not  come  home.  Master  Ed- 
ouard." 

The  cold  fit  fell  on  him. 

The  next  morning  came  a  letter 
from  his  uncle,  dated  Paris. 

Edouard  was  ready  to  tear  his  liair. 

"  Gone   to   Paris   with  one   shirt ! 


Who  could  foresee  a  Imman  creature 
going  from  any  place  but  Bicctre  to 
the  cajjital  of  the  world  with  one 
shirt !  Order  my  horse,  Marthc.  He 
will  turn  it,  I  suppose,  after  the  first 
week.  That  will  be  a  compliment  to 
the  capital.  Ten  thousand  devils  !  I 
shall  go  mad.     Order  my  horse." 

"  Where  are  you  going,  my  young 
monsieur?  " 

"  To  Paris.  Equip  me ;  lend  me  a 
shirt.     He  has  one  left,  has  he  not  ?  " 

Marthe  did  not  even  deign  to  no- 
tice this  skit. 

"  But  he  is  coming  home  !  — he  is 
coming  home  !  "  she  cried ;  "  you 
don't  read  the  letter." 

"  True  :  he  is  coming  home  to-day 
or  to-morrow.  Heaven  abore,  how 
these  old  men  talk  !  as  if  today  and 
to-morrow  were  the  same  thing,  or 
anything  like  the  same  thing.  I  shall 
ride  to  Paris." 

"  Then  you  will  miss  him  on  the 
road." 

"  Give  mc  paper  and  ink,  Marthc. 
I  will  write  letters  all  day.  Ah  !  how 
unlucky  I  am  ! " 

He  wrote  along  letter  to  St.  Aubin, 
telling  him  all  he  had  done  and  suf- 
fered. He  wrote  also  to  the  notary, 
conjuring  him  again  to  watch  the  in- 
terests of  Bcaurepaire  keenly  while  he 
should  be  away.  Then  he  got  his 
horse  and  galloped  round  and  round 
his  uncle's  paddock,  and  suffered  the 
tortures  that  sluggish  spirits  never 
feel  and  cannot  realize.  The  next 
afternoon  —  oh  joy !  —  his  uncle's 
burly  form  appeared,  and  gave  him  a 
hearty  welcome. 

The  poor  boy  wanted  to  open  his 
business  at  once,  but  he  saw  there 
was  no  chance  of  his  being  listened 
to,  till  a  good  score  of  farm  questions 
had  been  put  and  answered. 

In  the  evening  he  got  his  uncle  to 
himself  and  told  him  his  story,  and 
begged  his  uncle  to  advance  the  two 
hundred  and  forty  thousand  francs  on 
mortgage. 

His  uncle  received  the  proposal 
coldly.  "  I  don't  see  my  way  to  it, 
Edouard,"  said   he.     "I  must  draw 


TIG 


WHITE  LIES. 


my  money  out  of  the  public  funds, 
and  they  arc  risinj^  fast.  No ;  I  can't 
do  it." 

Edouard  implored  his  uncle  not  to 
look  on  it  in  that  light,  but  as  a  be- 
nevolent action,  that  would  be  attend- 
ed with  less  loss  than  actions  of  such 
merit  usually  are. 

"  But  why  should  I  lose  a  sou  for 
those  aristocrats  ?  " 

"  If  you  knew  them,  —  but  you  do 
not,  my  uncle  :  do  it  for  me  ! —  for  me 
whose  heart  is  tied  to  them  forever !  " 
"  Pheugh !  Well,  look  here,  Edouard, 
if  you  have  really  been  fool  enough  to 
fall  in  love  there,  and  have  a  mind  to 
play  Georges  Dandin,  I  '11  find  you 
some  money  for  the  part ;  but  I  can't 
ufifbrd  so  much  as  this,  and  I  wash  my 
hands  of  your  aristos." 

"  Enough,  my  uncle.  I  have  not 
then  a  friend  in  the  world  but  those 
whom  you  call  aristos." 

"  You  are  an  ungrateful  boy.  It  is 
I  who  have  no  friend  :  and  I  thought 
he  came  to  see  me  out  of  love :  old 
fool !  it  was  for  money,  like  all  the 
rest." 

"  You  insult  me,  my  uncle.  But 
you  have  the  right.  1  do  not  answer. 
I  go  away." 

"  Go  to  all  the  devils,  my  nephew  !  " 

Edouard  was  interrupted  on  his 
way  to  the  stables  by  old  Marthe. 

"  No,  my  young  monsieur,  you  do 
not  leave  us  like  that." 

"  He  insulted  me,  Marthe." 

"  All  bah !  he  insults  me  three 
times  a  week,  and  I  him  for  that  mat- 
ter :  but  we  don't  part  any  the  more 
for  that.  He  shall  apologize.  Above 
all,  he  shall  lend  your  aristocrats  the 
money.     It  won't  ruin  us." 

"  Why,  Marthe,  you  must  have  lis- 
tened." 

"  Parhleu .'  and  a  good  thing  too. 
You  keep  quiet.  You  will  sec  he  has 
had  his  bark,  and  there  is  not  much 
bite  in  him,  poor  man,  though  he 
thinks  he  is  full  of  it." 

"  O  my  good  Marthe,  I  know  his 
character,  and  that  bo  is  good  at  bot- 
tom, but  to  come  here  and  wait,  and 
wait,  and  lose  days  when  every  iiour 


was  gold,  and  then  to  be  denied. 
Mon  Dieu!  where  should  I  come  foi 
help  but  to  my  mother's  brother? 
Alas !  I  have  no  other  kindred  !  " 

Marthe  prevailed  on  him  to  stay. 

This  done,  she  went  and  attacked 
her  master. 

"Are  you  content?"  asked  she, 
calmly,  dusting  a  chair,  or  pretending 
to.     "  He  weeps." 

"  Who  weeps  ?  " 

"  Our  guest,  —  our  nephew,  —  our 
pretty  child." 

"  All  the  worse  for  him.  You 
don't  know  then,  —  he  insulted  me." 

"  To  whom  do  you  tell  that  1  I 
was  at  the  keyhole." 

"  Ugh ! " 

"  The  boot  is  on  the  other  leg ;  it 
is  you  who  treated  him  cruelly.  He 
weeps,  and  he  is  going  away." 

"  Going  ■?     Where  1 " 

"  Do  I  know  ?  Wiicre  you  bade 
him  go  !!!!!! " 

"  That  gives  me  pain,  that  he  should 
go  like  that." 

"  I  knew  it  would,  our  master,  so  I 
stopped  him,  sore  against  iiis  will." 

"  You  did  well ;  that  will  be  worth 
a  new  gown  to  you.  What  did  you 
say  to  him  ?  " 

"  I  said,  '  You  must  not  take 
things  to  heart  like  that ;  our  master 
is  a  vile  temper  — '  " 

"  Ye  lied  !  " 

"  '  But  he  has  a  good  heart.'  " 

"  You  spoke  the  truth ;  I  am  too 
good." 

" '  He  is  your  mother's  brother,' 
said  I,  '  and  though  he  is  a  little 
wicked  he  does  not  hate  you  at  the 
bottom.  Stay  wjth  us,  and  don't  talk 
about  money,'  said  I,  '  that  nettles 
him.'  For  "all  that,  master,  I  could 
not  help  thinking  to  myself,  we  are 
old,  and  we  can't  take  our  money 
away  with  us  :  our  time  will  soon 
come  when  we  must  go  away  as  bare 
as  we  came." 

"  That  is  true,  confound  it !  " 

"  As  for  my  dirt  of  money,  and  I 
iiave  rolled  up  a  good  bit  in  your  ser- 
vice, for  you  know  you  never  were 
stingy  to  me  I  " 


WHITE  LIES. 


117 


"  Because  I  never  caught  you  rob- 
bing mt",  you  old  jade." 

"I  shall  let  him  have  lliat,  aii}'- 
way." 

"  If  you  dare  to  say  such  a  word 
to  him  I  '11  wring  your  neck  round  ; 
who  are  you  to  come  with  your  three 
coins  between  my  sister's  son  and  me  ? 
be  off  and  cook  the  dinner." 

"  I  go,  our  master." 

Uncle  and  nephew  met  at  dinner  : 
and  nephew,  after  his  rebuff,  talked 
anything  but  money.  After  dinner, 
which  Martlie  took  care  should  bo 
much  to  his  taste,  the  old  man  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  and  said  with  a 
good-humor  large  as  the  ocean  :  — 

"  Now,  nephew,  aliout  this  little  af- 
fair of  yours  1  Now  is  the  time  to 
come  to  a  man  for  money ;  after  din- 
ner I  feel  like  doing  anything,  how- 
ever foolish,  to  make  all  the  world 
happy  before  I  die." 

Edouard,  finding  liim  in  this  humor, 
told  the  story  of  Beaurepaire  more 
fully,  and  laid  bare  his  own  feelings 
to  an  auditor  who,  partly  for  good- 
humor,  partly  remorse,  exhibited  an 
almost  ludicrous  amount  of  sympa- 
thy, real  or  factitious,  with  every  sen- 
timent, however  delicate,  Edouard  ex- 
hibited to  him. 

He  concluded  by  vowing  they 
should  have  the  money  if  the  security 
was  sound  :  "  And  it  must  be,"  said 
he,  "  because  the  rents  are  raised,  and 
you  have  paid  off  one  of  the  mort- 
gages.    How  long  can  you  give  me  ?  " 

"  0  my  dear  uncle,  we  may  have 
^deadly  enemy.     Time  is  gold,  too." 

" Let  us  see  :  tomorrow  is  market- 
day,  and  the  next  day  is  the  fair." 

Edouard  sighed. 

"  The  day  after  —  we  will  see  about 
it." 

Edouard  groaned. 

"  I  mean  Ave  will  go  down  to  the 
Mairie  in  my  cabriolet." 

"Ah!" 

"  And  the  money  in  our  pocket." 

"  Ah !  let  mc  embrace  you,  my  un- 
cle." 

Thus  a  term  was  put  to  Edouard 's 
anxieties.      In  three  days  his   uncle 


would  be  tiic  sole  creditor  of  Beaure- 
paire. Still  he  could  not  help  counting 
the  hours,  and  he  did  not  really  feel 
safe  till  Thursday  evening  came,  and 
his  uncle  showed  him  an  apoplectic 
pocket-book,  and  ordered  his  Norman 
horse,  a  beast  of  singular  power  and 
bottom,  to  be  fed  early  for  the  jour- 
ney. 

The  youth  was  in  a  delicious  rev- 
ery  :  the  old  man  calmly  smoking  his 
pipe:  when  Marthe  brought  a  letter 
in  that  the  postman  had  just  left.  It 
was  written  in  a  lady's  hand.  His 
heart  throbbed  :  Marthe  watched  him 
with  a  smile,  and  found  an  excuse  for 
hanging  about.  He  opened  it :  his  eye 
went  like  lightning  to  the  signature. 

Laure  Aglae  Rose  de  Beaurepaire. 

The  sweet  name  was  on  its  way  to 
his  eager  lips,  when  he  caught  sight 
of  a  word  or  two  above  it  that  struck 
him  like  some  icy  dagger.  He  read, 
and  the  color  left  his  very  lips.  He  sat 
with  the  letter,  and  seemed  a  man 
turned  into  stone,  all  but  his  quiver- 
ing lip,  and  the  trembling  hands  that 
held  that  dear  handwriting. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Notary  read  notary.  The  pieces 
of  that  placard  flung  in  Perrin's  face 
were  a  revelation  as  well  as  an  affront. 

He  made  inquiries  and  soon  learned 
the  statesman  was  the  champion  of 
Beaurepaire  and  also  a  client  of  Pi- 
card.  Putting  the  two  together,  he 
suspected  his  rival  had  been  playing 
with  him.  "  Picard  is  playing  "that 
young  ruffian's  game,"  said  he.  "  Per- 
haps means  to  lend  Iiim  his  money 
instead  of  me."  His  suspicions  went 
no  further. 

But  the  next  day  a  gossip  told  him 
the  Beaurepaire  tenants  had  been 
screwed  up  thirty  pegs. 

He  saw  at  once  the  consequences  to 
the  estate.  His  vengeance  would 
escape  him  as  well  as  his  prize. 

He  took  a  quick  resolution  and 
acted  upon  it. 


118 


WHITE  LIES. 


He  rode  to  Commandant  Raynal. 

That  officer,  it  may  be  remembered, 
had  months  ago  given  him  a  commis- 
sion to  buy  an  estate.  He  had  been 
looking  out  for  one  for  him  ever  since, 
but  unlucliily  he  had  not  been  able  to 
find  a  bad  enough  one  to  suit.  An 
agent  looks  not  to  his  employer's  in- 
terest, but  his  own.  The  small  nomi- 
nal percentage  he  receives  is  a  mere 
blind.  He  would  not  give  you  the 
detriment  of  his  own  judgment  for  a 
paltry  five  per  cent.  From  a  piano- 
forte to  a  house,  and  down  again  to 
that  most  despised  property,  an  au- 
thor's creation,  agency  is  an  organ- 
ized swindle. 

Perrin  had  his  eye  on  Beaurepaire 
when  Raynal  first  gave  him  the  com- 
mission ;  but  he  never  for  a  moment 
intended  to  got  his  employer  such  a 
bargain  as  that.  lie  was  waiting  till 
some  one  should  have  an  estate  to  sell 
worth  one  hundred  and  eighty  thou- 
sand francs.  He  would  have  gone  to 
this  man  and  said,  "Now  if  I  get 
you  your  money,  five  per  cent  comes 
to  me  of  course."  This  being  assent- 
ed to,  he  would  have  kept  quiet 
awhile :  then  he  would  have  come 
back,  and  said,  "  I  can  get  you  a  cus- 
tomer, but  you  must  ask  two  hundred 
and  iifty  thousand  francs,  —  the  odd 
seventy  thousand  over  your  price  is 
for  me." 

This  is  the  principle  of  agency  as 
])ractised  in  France,  in  England,  and 
above  all  in  Poland,  where  an  apple 
can't  change  hands  without  an  Is- 
raelite to  come  between  the  two  silly 
natives,  and  pass  it  across  after  peel- 
ing it  thick.  But  neither  in  France, 
England,  nor  Poland  was  the  princi- 
ple in  all  its  branches  better  under- 
stood than  by  this  worthy  notary.    . 

And  to  those  principles  he  was  now 
for  the  first  time  about  to  be  a  traitor. 
Behold  him  jogging  along  on  the  dun 
pony,  to  give  his  principal  the  best 
bargain  in  the  country-side. 

A  sharp  pang  of  remorse  shot 
through  him  at  the  thought:  but  he 
never  wavered.  Fortunately  for  him- 
self he  was  not  all  one  vice.     He  was 


vindictive,  as  well  as  grinding;  was 
capable  of  sacrificing,  not  his  interest 
perhaps,  but  a  percentage  on  it,  to 
revenge.  When  we  are  bent  on  do- 
ing a  thing  we  find  reasons  of  all 
sorts.  He  said  to  himself,  '  I  shall 
be  his  steward,  his  agent ;  he  is  a 
soldier,  —  never  there,  —  perhaps  get 
knocked  on  the  head,  —  die  intestate, 
—  aha?"  In  short  a  vista  of  possi- 
ble consequences. 

Raynal  cut  short  the  notary's  glow- 
ing description  of  the  unrivalled  bar 
gain  he  had  with  unexampled  zeal 
and  fidelity  secured  him. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  1  " 

"  We  must  go  together  to  the 
mayor,  at  Santenoy  1  " 

"  Good." 

"  How  many  days  shall  you  require 
to  get  your  money  from  your  bank- 
ers 1 " 

"  My  bankers  ?  it  is  all  in  my 
knapsack." 

"  Ah !  then  v/e  can  settle  this  im- 
mediately." 

"  No  !  we  can't !  public  business 
first,  private  afterwards."  He  con- 
sulted a  card.  "  To-moiTow,  after  one 
o'clock,  I  'm  free,  —  be  at  Santenoy 
at  three, —  will  that  do  ?  " 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"  Get  everything  ready  :  I  will  rido 
down  by  three.    How  much  money  ?  " 

"  About  two  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand francs." 

"  I  did  not  ask  you  about  how 
much  !  "  said  the  precisian.  "  I  said 
how  much  "?  never  mind,  I  '11  bring 
enough.     Good  day." 

Next  day,  at  a  quarter  before  three, 
Perrin  was  parading  in  some  anxiety 
before  the  Mairie.  Just  at  the  stroke 
of  three  up  clattered  the  comman- 
dant in  full  uniform  ;  off  his  horse  in 
a  moment,  and  got  a  bo}'  to  hold  it. 
He  gave  Perrin  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  francs,  and  sent  him  to  the 
Mairie  to  buy  Beaurepaire  while  he 
went  to  inspect  a  small  barrack  that 
was  building  in  the  town  of  Santenoy. 

Perrin  went  in  and  had  audience  of 
the  mayor,  and  announced  a  purchas- 


WHITE  LIES. 


119 


er  ot  Bcaurepaire  :  the  mayor's  coun- 
tenance fell.  He  loitered  about ;  was 
a  long  time  finding  this  document  and 
that :  at  last  he  said,  "  Have  you  got 
the  money  ?  " 

"Yes!"  said  the  notary,  "two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs. 
Here  they  are." 

The  mayor  pottered  about  again ; 
found  a  paper  ;  put  on  his  spectacles. 
"  That  is  not  the  price,"  said  he  ; 
"  the  estate  is  worth  two  hundred  and 
ninety-five  thousand  francs." 

"  How  can  that  be,  monslem-?  two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  is  the  fig- 
ure on  your  placard." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  the  mayor,  apolo- 
geticall}'.  "  I  ought  to  have  altered 
it.  The  order  from  the  directory  men- 
tions no  sum.  It  is  conceived  in  gen- 
eral terms  :  the  estate  is  to  he  sold  fur 
a  certain  sum,  over  and  above  the  capi- 
tal of  the  rents  at  twenty-seven  years' 
purchase.  Since  I  put  up  that  placard 
the  rents  have  been  raised :  in  evi- 
dence of  which  the  leases  have  been 
sent  over  to  me.  Here  they  are.  Since 
you  propose  to  purchase,  you  are  at 
liberty  to  inspect  them.  For  two 
hundred  and  ninety-five  thousand  one 
hundred  and  forty  francs,  the  chateau 
and  the  estate  are  yours." 

"  This  is  Picard,"  said  Perrin, 
spitefully. 

The  mayor  affected  not  to  hear  him. 
Perrin  went  out  to  tell  tliis  rebuff'  to 
Raynal.  He  found  him  inspecting 
the  barrack.  He  explained  the  mat- 
ter, and  excused  himself,  throwing 
the  blame  on  the  mayor,  who,  not 
being  a  man  of  business,  allowed  a 
placard  with  false  figures  to  stand 
upon  his  wall. 

"  Well,  but,"  said  Raynal,  "since 
it  turns  out  to  be  worth  two  hun- 
dred and  ninety  -  five  thousand  one 
hundred  and  forty  francs,  instead  of 
two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs, 
all  the  better  for  me  :  it  is  only  pay- 
ing the  odd  money." 

"But  where  are  we  to  get  it?  I 
would  lend  it  you  to-morrow,  but  to- 
morrow may  be  too  late." 

"  (),  I  have  got  another  fifty  thou- 


sand francs  in  my  pocket,"  said  the 
other,  coolly.  "  I  brought  all  I  have 
got ;  you  did  not  seem  very  clear  how 
much  we  should  want." 

"  Come  to  the  mayor,  monsieur,  at 
once  !  "  cried  the  exulting  notary  : 
"  make  haste,  or  he  will  pretend  it  is 
after  office  hours." 

When  the  commandant  entered, 
epaulet  on  shoulder,  sword  clanking, 
and  laid  down  the  whole  purchase- 
money  demanded,  the  mayor  made  no 
further  resistance. 

He  was  personally  acquainted  with 
Raynal :  admired  him,  stood  in  awe 
of  him,  and  of  the  sword  whose  power 
he  represented.  As  for  Raynal,  he 
bought  the  property  he  hud  never 
seen,  much  as  30U  buy  a  hot  roll 
across  a  counter. 

From  this  moment  the  ancient 
lands,  timber,  chateau,  fish-ponds, 
manorial,  and  baronial  rights  in  abey- 
ance, and  the  oak-tree  that  was  older 
than  the  family  itself,  belonged  to  a 
soldier  who  had  risen  from  the  ranks, 
and  to  the  heirs  of  his  plebeian  body. 
"  I  can  sleep  there  to-night,  eh "?  " 
The  notary  stared,  and  then  smiled  : 
here  was  a  man  who  outran  even  his 
vengeance. 

lie  explained  to  him  that  he  could 
not  sleep  at  his  own  house  till  he  had 
turned  his  lodgers  out.     The  law  re- 
quires that  wc  serve  a  notice  on  them. 
"  Let  us  go  and  serve  it,  then." 
"  But  it  is  not  even  drawn  up." 
"  Draw  it  up." 

"  And  then  it  has  to  be  engrossed." 
"  Engross  it.     I  '11  wait  here." 
"But  it  must  be  served  before  noon 
of  the  day  it  is  served  on." 

"  Sac-r-r-r-r-e  !  !  dog  of  a  law  !  that 

can't  do  a  single  thing  without  half  a 

dozen   preliminaries.      The    bayonet 

forever.    Well,  let  me  see.     One  of 

my  officers  lives  near  at  hand.     He  is 

absent  on  leave.    Do  you  know  him  1 

His  name  is  Riviere." 

"  I  know  him  by  sight." 

"  I'll  take  possession  of  his  quarters 

for  the  night :  his  landlady  knows  me. " 

"Yes!  yes!"  cried  the  notary,  his 

eyes  glittering  with  gratified  malice. 


120 


WHITE  LIES. 


"  Why,   he   lives   close    to   the  cha- 
teau." 

"  Good !  then  we  can  sally  out  on 
it  in  the  morning." 

"Yes!  commandant,  —  yes!  You 
have  bright  ideas,  that  is  the  place  to 
sally  from  "  ;  and  he  chuckled  fiend- 
ishly. "  At  ten  to-morrow  I  call  on 
you ;  and  we  take  possession  of  your 
property." 

"  So  be  it !  at  ten.  Good  day.  I 
must  go  back  to  the  barracks  and  spur 
tho  workmen." 

As  the  commandant  went  to  tlie 
barracks,  he  thought  to  himself : 
"' My  property,'  those  words  have  a 
fine  sound.  They  ought,  too :  cost 
one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs 
apiece.  By  St.  Denis  I  am  a  fortu- 
nate man  !  tliere  are  not  many  sol- 
diers of  my  age  that  can  say  '  my 
property,'  especially  soldiei's  that  have 
carried  a  knapsack.  How  proud  my 
poor  old  mother  would  be  !  Ah  !  that 
spoils  it  all.  She  will  not  sit  facing 
me  on  the  hearth.  It  would  be  her 
new  house  :  or  our  new  house.  It 
will  only  be  mine.  Allans!  I  am  an 
ungrateful  cur  to  whine.  We  can't 
have  everything.  I'm  not  the  first  to 
whom  prosperity  has  come  a  year  or  so 
too  late.  I  shall  not  be  tlie  last.  Her 
dream  of  paradise  used  to  be  a  house  in 
the  country.  Duty  !  "  And  the  sword 
clanked  on  the  pavement  as  he  walked 
sharply  to  spur  the  workmen,  before 
riding  up  to  his  quarters  for  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

After  Edouaid's  departure  Jose- 
phine de  Eeaurepaire  was  sad,  and 
weighed  down  with  presentiments. 

"My  friend,"  said  she  toSt.  Aubin, 
"I  feel  as  I  think  soldiers  must  feel 
who  know  the  enemy  is  undermining 
them :  no  danger  on  the  surfiice : 
nothing  that  can  be  seen,  met,  baffled, 
attacked,  or  evaded.  In  daily  peril, 
all  the  moie  horrible  that  it  imitates 
perfect  serenity,  they  awix'it  the  fatal 
match." 


"You  exaggerate,"  veplied  St 
Aubin,  soothingly.  "  We  have  a 
friend  still  more  zealous  and  active 
than  our  enemy :  bclievu  me,  your 
depression  is  really  caused  by  his  ab- 
sence :  we  all  miss  the  contact  of  that 
young  heroic  spirit ;  we  are  a  body, 
and  he  its  soul." 

Josephine  was  silent,  for  she  said 
to  herself:  "  Why  should  I  dash  these 
spirits  ?  they  are  so  happy  and  con- 
fident." 

So  after  that  she  remained  alone  in 
her  musings.  Edouard  had  animated 
Laure  and  St.  Aubin  with  a  courage 
that  withstood  the  fears  caused  by  tho 
notary's  last  blow. 

As  for  the  baroness,  she  was  like  a 
fading  plant  revived  by  showers  and 
sun.  The  system  they  pursued  with 
har,  which  Edouard  dubb.  d  reticence, 
made  her  a  happy  old  woman.  She 
was  allowed  to  see  her  own  cham- 
pion's last  move,  and  then  the  curtain 
was  dropped.  This  then  was  to  her 
the  whole  face  of  affairs  :  her  rents 
raised,  the  only  hostile  creditor  she 
knew  of  paid  off,  a  thousand  francs 
in  the  house,  and  an  ardent  youth 
with  the  face  of  an  angel  added  to  her 
family  and  her  heart.  Shall  I  own 
that  even  juicy  meat  and  Arabian 
coffee  co-operated  with  nobler  inci- 
dents to  cheer  and  sustain  her  ?  — 
no!  This  refined  ladv  was  all  soul, 
—  like  yourself,  Mrs.  Reader! 

It  was  a  balmy  morning,  though 
late  in  the  year ;  Josephine  and  Laure 
had  breakfasted,  and  were  walking 
slowly  on  the  south  terrace,  by  ordi- 
nance of  physician.  Recent  events 
had  brought  St.  Aubin  quite  down 
out  of  the  clouds.  His  attention  be- 
ing fairly  awakened  to  all  sublunary 
affairs  on  his  beat,  he  now  superin- 
tended the  health  of  the  entire  fam- 
ily with  extraordinary  severity. 

Not  being  an  apothecary  with  drugs 
to  sell,  right  or  wrong,  or  a  physician 
in  league  with  a  retailer  of  drugs,  he 
prescribed  to  each  of  these  three  ladies 
every  dry  day,  and  to  the  younger 
ones  every  day,  a  draught  of  morning 


WHITE   LIES. 


121 


air.  lie  was  now  \vaitin<^  in  the  hall 
to  give  the  baroness  his  arm  as  soon 
as  she  should  come  down. 

"  What  a  delicious  morning:,  Jose- 
pViine !  the  dear  doctor  is  rij;ht ;  the 
morning  is  really  a  good  time  to  walk, 
the  air  seems  perfumed." 

"  Yes,  Laure,  let  us  enjoy  our 
home  as  much  as  we  can,  since  any 
day  we  may  lose  it." 

"  Now  are  you  going  to  begin  ?  — 
such  idle  fears !  The  estate  is  for 
sale,  but  money  is  scarce.  Who  can 
find  such  a  quantity  of  it  all  in  a  mo- 
ment ?  jClearly  it  must  be  some  one 
who  loves  us." 

"  Or  some  one  who  hates  us." 

"  0,  love  is  stronger  than  hate." 

"  In  you." 

"  In  everybody.  Here  is  mamma! 
here  's  mamma  !  " 

Then  —  how  you  young  people  of 
an  unceremonious  age  would  have 
laughed  !  —  the  demoiselles  De  Beau- 
repaire,  inasmuch  as  this  was  their 
mother's  first  appearance,  lowered 
their  fair  heads  at  tlie  same  time,  like 
young  poplars  bowing  to  the  wind, 
and  so  waited  reverently  till  she  had 
slightly  lifted  her  hands,  and  said  :  — 

"  God  bless  you,  my  children  !  " 

It  was  done  in  a  moment  on  both 
sides,  but  was  full  of  grace  and  piety 
and  the  charm  of  ancient  manners. 

"  How  is  our  dear  mother's  health 
this  morning  ?  "  inquired  Josephine. 

"  You  must  ask  monsieur ;  he  has 
become  tyrannical,  and  forbids  me  to 
have  an  opinion  on  such  points." 

"  The  baroness  is  well,  raesdemoi- 
selles,  but  she  will  be  better  when  she 
has  taken  my  prescription,  — one  turn 
before  breakfest  and  two  draughts  of 
you  know  what." 

"  Perhaps,  since  you  know  every- 
thing, doctor,  you  will  tell  me  how 
mamma  slept  f  "  inquired  Laure,  a 
little  pertly. 

'•'  She  slept  well  if  she  took  what  I 
gave  her." 

"  But  did  she  take  what  you  gave 
her?  —  ha!  ha!  Yon  don't  know." 

^'  To  ascertain  that  I  must  feel  her 
pulse. " 

6 


"  I  slept,  Laure,  and  I  am  sorry  I 
did." 

"  Ingrate !  "  said  the  doctor. 

"  For  I  dreamed,  doctor,  and  it  was 
an  ugly  dream.  I  was  with  you  all 
in  the  garden,  on  this  very  spot  or 
near  it.  But  it  was  not  at  this  time 
of  year,  for  I  was  admiring  my  flow- 
ers and  my  old  friends  the  trees,  and 
the  birds  were  singing  with  all  their 
might.  Suddenly  a  loud  clock  struck. 
I  do  not  know  what  hour,  but  it  struck 
a  great  many  times.  In  a  moment 
flowers,  trees,  sky,  and  the  light  of 
day  were  gone.  I  looked,  —  I  could 
see  no  more  my  beloved  dwelling  nor 
my  children's  eyes.  Shall  I  tell  you 
what  it  means  ?  "  said  the  old  lady, 
gravely.  "  It  means  that  I  was 
dead.  An  ugly  dream,  my  children, 
—  an  ugly  dream.  Again,  had  it 
come  a  month  ago,  —  but  now  all  is 
so  bright  and  hopeful,  I  wish  to  stay 
with  my  darlings  a  little  longer." 

"  It  was  only  a  dream,  dear  moth- 
er," cried  Josephine,  gayly. 

"  See,  here  is  your  terrace  and 
your  chateau." 

"  And  here  are  your  daughters," 
said  Laure ;  and  tliey  both  came  close 
to  her  to  put  their  existence  out  of 
doubt. 

"  And  here  is  your  faithful  though 
useless  old  friend." 

"  Breakfast,  madame  !  "  and  Jacin- 
tha  courtesied  to  each  lady  in  turn. 

"  Jacintha  has  turned  the  conversa- 
tion agreeably.  I  was  going  to  cloud 
you  all." 

"  I  now  prescribe  breakfost,  ma- 
dame, and  olilivion  of  idle  dreams. 
You  will  walk  half  an  hour  more, 
young  ladies." 

The  sisters  took  several  turns  in 
silence.    Laure  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  How  superstitious  you  are,  my 
sister." 

"Ill  have  said  nothing." 

"  No  ;  but  you  look  volumes.  I 
believe  in  our  young  madman  more 
than  in  our  dear  mother's  dreams." 

"  He  will  do  all  he  can.  Yes! — • 
yes!  —  I  think  with  you  his  energy, 
his  spirits,  will  defeat  our  enemy."" 


122 


WHITE   LIES. 


"  Of  course  they  will,  Josephine.  I 
am  glad  you  begin  to  look  at  things 
as  they  are.  See  how  our  mother's 
health  and  spirits  are  improving ;  no 
wonder,  since  everything  now  is 
bright,  —  and  here  comes  Jacintha  in 
a  wonderful  hurry,  —  mamma  wants 
us.  No  ;  how  white  she  is.  O  Jo- 
sephine, there  is  something  the  mat- 
ter !  Mamma  is  ill,  —  her  dream  !  " 

"  Hush  !  hush !  hush  !  "  cried  Ja- 
cintha, who  came  towards  them, 
wringing  her  hands.  "O  mesdem- 
oiscUes,  —  O  mesdemoiselles,  —  the 
chateau  !  — oh  don't  let  my  poor  mis- 
tress know,  —  it  will  kill  her.  Oh 
what  shall  I  do  '?  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Be  calm,  Laure,  — be  calm,  Jacin- 
tha," said  Josephine,  trembling  all 
over,  except  her  voice.  "  Now  one 
word, — oh!  my  presentiments!  — 
Beaurepaire ! " 

Jacintha  clasped  her  hands  and 
burst  out  sobbing. 

"It  is  sold,"  said  Josephine. 
"  Heaven  give  me  wisdom,  what  shall 
I  do  ?  quick,  girl,  who  to  ?  to  that  man, 
—  to  Perrin  "?  " 

"  To  a  stranger,  to  an  officer,  a 
grand  officer.  Dard  told  me  the  very 
name,  cursed  be  it." 

"  A  Bonapartist !  Then  we  are 
ruined.  I  have  killed  my  own  moth- 
er." 

"  No  !  no  !  n»y  sister,  —  she  will 
foint," 

"  No !  Laure.  This  is  no  time  for 
weakness.  Come  to  the  Pleasance. 
There  is  water  there.  I  love  my 
mother  !  I  love  my  mother  !  " 

She  went  with  tottering  steps 
towards  the  pool  in  the  Pleasance, 
but  turning  the  corner  she  started 
back  with  a  convulsive  cry,  and  her 
momentary  feebleness  left  her  direct- 
ly ;  she  crouched  against  the  wall  and 
gripped  the  ancient  corner-stone  with 
her  tender  hand  till  it  powdered,  and 
she  spied  with  dilating  eye  into  the 
Pleasance,  Laure  and  Jacintha  panting 
behind  her.  Two  men  stood,  with 
their  backs  turned  to  her,  looking  at 
the  oak-tree  :  one  an  officer  in  full 
uniform,  the  other  the  human  snake 


Perrin.  Though  the  soldier's  back 
was  turned,  his  off-handed,  peremptory 
manner  told  her  he  was  inspecting  the 
place  as  its  master. 

"  The  baroness  !  the  baroness  !  " 
cried  Jacintha,  with  horror.  They 
looked  round,  and  the  baroness  was 
at  their  very  backs. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  cried  she,  gayly. 

"  Nothing,  mamma  !  " 

"  Let  me  see  this  nothing  ?  " 

They  glanced  at  one  another,  and, 
idle  as  the  attempt  was,  the  habit  of 
sparing  her  prevailed,  and  they  flung 
themselves  between  her  and  the  blow. 

"  Josephine  is  not  well,  my  mother. 
She  wants  to  go  in."  Both  girls 
faced  the  baroness. 

"  Yes,  if  my  mother  will  go  with 
me,"  said  Josephine. 

"  Jacintha,"  said  the  baroness, 
"  fetch  Monsieur  St.  Aubin.  There, 
I  have  sent  her  away.  So  now  tell 
me  why  do  you  drive  me  back  in  this 
way  1  '" 

"  Did  I  ?     I  was  not  aware." 

"  Children,  something  has  hap- 
pened "  ;  and  she  looked  keenly  from 
one  to  the  other. 

"  0  mamma,  do  not  go  that  way  : 
there  are  strangers  in  the  Pleasance." 

"Let  me  see,  —  I  tell  you  I  will 
see.  So  there  are.  Insolents !  Call 
Jacintha,  that  I  may  order  these 
people  out  of  my  premises." 

"  Mother,  for  Heaven's  sake,"  cried 
Josephine,  "  be  calm." 

"  Be  calm  when  impertinent  in- 
truders come  into  my  garden  1  " 

"  Mother,  they  arc  not  intruders." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  They  have  a  right  to  be  in  our 
Pleasance." 

"  Josepliine  !  Laure  !  oh  !  my 
heart ! " 

"  Yes,  mother !  that  officer  has 
bought  the  chateau." 

"  It  is  impossible  !  He  was  to  buy 
it  for  us,  —  there  is  some  mistake,  — 
what  man  would  kill  a  poor  old 
woman  like  me  !  I  will  speak  to  this 
monsieur ;  he  wears  a  sword.  Sol- 
diers do  not  trample  on  women.  Ah  I 
that  man.'' 


WHITE   LlliS. 


123 


The  notary,  attracted  by  her  voice, 
came  towards  Ivjr,  a  paper  in  liis 
hand. 

Itaynal  coolly  inspected  the  tree, 
and  tapped  it  with  his  scabbard,  and 
left  Perrin  to  do  the  dirty  work. 

The  notary  took  otF  his  hat,  and, 
with  a  malignant  affectation  of  re- 
spect, presented  tiic  baroness  with  a 
paper. 

The  poor  old  thing  took  it  with  a 
courtesy  the  effect  of  habit,  and  read 
it  to  her  daughters  as  well  as  her  emo- 
tion permitted  and  the  language  which 
was  as  pew  to  her  as  the  dialect  of 
Cat  Island  to  Columbus. 

"  Jean  Raijnal,  domiciled  hy  rigid, 
and  lodging  in  fact  at  the  chateau  of 
Beaurepaire,  acting  by  the  pursuit  and 
diligence  of  Master  Perrin,  notary;  I 
Guillaume  Le  Gras,  bailiff,  give  notice 
to  Josephine  Aglae  St.  Croix  de  Beau- 
repaire, commonli/  called  the  Baroness 
de  Beaurepaire,  having  no  known  place 
of  abode  —  " 

"  Oh ! " 
"but    lodging   tvrongfally   at    the  said 
chateau    of    Beaurepaire    that    she    is 
warned  to  decamp   within    twenty  four 
hours  —  " 

"To  decamp!    Ah!  Dieu  !  " 
"failing  which,  that  she  ivill  be  thereto 
enforced   in   the    manner  for  that  case 
made  and  provided  with  the  aid  of  all  the 
officers  and  agents  of  the  public  force." 

"Ah!  no,  messieurs,  pray  do  not 
use  force.  I  am  frightened  enough 
already.  Mon  Dieu!  I  did  not  know 
I  was  doing  anything  wrong.  I  have 
been  here  thirty  years.  But,  since 
Beaurepaire  is  sold,  I  comprehend 
perfectly  that  I  must  go.  It  is  just. 
As  you  say,  I  am  not  in  my  own 
house.  I  will  go,  messieurs.  Whith- 
er shall  I  go,  my  children  1  The  house 
where  you  were  born  to  me  is  ours 
no  longer.  Excuse  me,  gentlemen,  — 
this  is  nothing  to  you.  Ah  !  sir,  you 
have  revenged  yourself  on  two  weak 
women,  —  may  God  forgive  you  !  In 
twenty-four  hours !  yes !  in  twenty- 
four  hours  the  Baroness  de  Beaure- 
paire will  trouble  no  one  more  in  this 
world." 


The  notary  turned  on  his  heel. 
The  poor  baroness,  all  whose  pride 
the  iron  law,  with  its  iron  gripe,  had 
crushed  with  dismay  and  terror,  ap- 
pealed to  iiim. 

"  O  sir  !  send  me  from  the  house, 
but  not  from  the  soil  where  my  Henri 
is  laid  !  is  there  not  in  all  this  domain 
a  corner  where  she  who  was  its  mis- 
tress may  lie  down  and  die !  Where 
is  the  new  baron,  that  I  may  ask  the 
favor  of  him  on  my  knees  1  " 

She  turned  towards  Raynal,  and 
seemed  to  be  going  towards  him  with 
outstretched  arms.  But  Laure  checked 
her  with  fervor:  — 

"  0  mamma,  do  not  lower  yourself! 
Ask  nothing  of  these  wretches  !  Let 
us  lose  all,  but  not  forget  ourselves." 

The  baroness  had  not  her  daugh- 
ter's spirit.  Her  very  person  tottered 
under  this  blow.  Josephine  support- 
ed her,  and  the  next  moment  St. 
Aubin  came  out  and  hastened  to  her 
side.  Her  head  fell  back  :  what  little 
strength  she  had  failed  her.  She  was 
half  lifted,  half  led  into  the  house. 

Commandant  Eajniil  was  amazed 
at  all  this. 

"  What  the  deuce  is  the  matter  1  " 
said  he. 

"  Oh  ! "  said  the  notary.  "  We  are 
used  to  these  little  scenes  in  our  busi- 
ness." 

"  But  I  am  not,"  replied  the  soldier. 
"  You  never  told  me  there  was  to  be 
ail  this  fuss." 

"  What  does  it  matter  to  you,  mon- 
sieur, —  the  house  is  yours.  To-mor- 
row at  this  time  I  will  meet  you  here, 
and  we  will  take  actual  possession. 
Adieu  ! " 

"  Good  day." 

The  soldier  strode  up  and  down  the 
Plcasance.  He  twisted  his  mus- 
taches, muttered,  and  peste'd,  and  was 
ill  at  ease. 

Accustomed  to  march  gayly  into  a 
town  and  see  the  regiment  that  was 
there  before  marching  gayly  out,  or 
vice  versa,  and  to  strike  tents  twice  a 
quarter  at  least,  h&  was  little  prepared 
for  such  a  scene  as  this.  True,  he 
ilid  not   hear  the   baroness's   words. 


124 


WHITE  LIES. 


but  more  than  one  tone  of  sharp  dis- 
tress readied  him  wliere  he  stood,  and 
the  action  of  the  whole  scene  was  so 
expressive  there  was  little  need  of 
words.  He  saw  the  notice  given,  — 
the  dismay  it  caused,  and  the  old  lady 
turn  imploringly  towards  him  with  a 
speaking  gesture,  and  above  all  he  saw 
her  carried  away,  half  fainting,  her 
hands  clasped,  her  reverend  face  pale. 
He  was  not  a  man  of  quick  sensibili- 
ties. He  did  not  thoroughly  take  the 
scene  in :  it  grew  upon  him  after- 
wards. 

"Confound  it,"  thought  he,  "I 
am  tiie  proprietor.  They  all  say  so. 
Instead  of  which  I  feel  like  a  thief, 
—  like  a  butcher.  Fancy  any  on« 
getting  so  fond  of  a  place  as  all 
this." 

Presently  it  occurred  to  him  that 
the  shortness  of  the  notice  must  have 
a  great  de;il  to  do  with  their  distress. 
"  What  an  ass  that  Perrin  is  not 
to  tell  me  the  house  was  full  of  wo- 
men. But  these  notaries  comprehend 
nothing  save  law :  women  can't 
'  Left  should-der — forward — quick — 
march  ! '  —  like  us :  they  have  such 
piles  of  baggage,  they  never  can  strike 
tents  when  the  order  comes.  Perhaps 
if  I  were  to  give  them  twenty-four  days 
instead  of  hours  ■?  —  hum  ?  " 

With  this  the  commandant  fell 
into  a  brown  study,  a  rare  thing  for 
him,  who  had  so  little  time  and  so 
much  work.  Now  each  of  us  has  his 
attitude  of  brown  study.  One  runs 
about  the  room  like  hyena  in  his 
den  :  another  stands  stately  with  fold- 
ed arms  (this  one  seldom  thinks  to 
the  purpose) :  another  sits  cross-legged, 
brows  lowered :  another  must  put  his 
head  into  his  hand,  and  so  keep  it 
up  to  thinking  mark  :  another  must 
twiddle  a  bit  of  string,  or  a  key,  — 
grant  him  this,  he  can  hatch  an  epic. 
Tills  commandant  must  draw  himself 
up  very  straight,  and  walk  six  paces 
and  back  very  slowly  till  the  problem 
was  solved  :  there,  —  I  will  be  frank, 
—  lie  had  done  a  good  deal  of  sentinel 
work :  and  such  is  the  force  of  early 
habits,  that  when   he  was   not  busv, 


only  thinking,  his  body  still  slipped 
back  to  its  original  habit. 

Whilst  be  was  guarding  the  old 
oak-tree,  for  all  the  world  as  if  it  had 
been  the  gate  of  the  Tuiieries  or  the 
barracks,  Josephine  de  Beaurepaire 
came  sudden!}'  out  from  the  house 
and  crossed  the  Pleasance  :  her  hair 
was  in  disorder,  her  manner  wild  : 
she  passed  swiftly  into  the  park. 

Now  Raynal  was  puzzling  himself 
how  to  let  the  family  know  they  need 
not  pack  up  their  caps  and  laces  in 
twenty-four  hours.  The  notary  was 
gone,  and  he  did  not  like  to  enter  the 
house. 

"  It  is  theirs  for  four-and-twenty 
hours,"  said  he,  "  and  I  should  be 
like  the  black  dog  in  their  eyes  if  I 
went  in."  So  wiien  he  caught  sight 
of  Josephine  he  said  :  "Ah,  this  will 
do  :  here  is  one  of  them,  I  '11  tell 
her !  " 

He  followed  her  accordingly  into 
tlie  park  :  but  it  was  not  so  easy  to 
catch  her,  —  she  flew.  "  Want  my 
cfivalry  to  come  up  with  this  one," 
muttered  Raynal.  He  took  his  scab- 
bard in  his  left  hand  and  ran  after 
her :  she  was,  however,  still  many 
yards  in  advance  of  him  when  she  en- 
tered a  small  building  which  is  not 
new  to  us,  though  it  was  so  to  Ray- 
nal. He  came  up  and  had  his  foot 
on  the  very  step  to  go  in  when  he  was 
arrested  by  that  he  heard  within. 

Josephine  was  praying  aloud  : 
praying  to  the  Virgin  with  sighs  and 
sobs  and  all  her  soul :  wrestling  so  in 
prayer  with  a  dead  saint  as  by  a 
strange  perversity  men  cannot  or  will 
not  wrestle  with  Him  who  alone  can 
hear  a  million  prayers  at  once  from  a 
million  different  places,  can  realize 
and  be  touched  with  a  sense  of  all 
man's  infirmities  in  a  way  no  single 
saint  with  his  partial  experience  of 
them  can  realize  and  be  touched  by 
them,  who  unasked  suspended  the 
laws  of  nature  that  had  taken  a  stran- 
ger's only  son,  and  she  a  widow,  — 
who  wept  at  human  sorrow  while  the 
eyes  of  all  the  great  saints  that  stood 
around  it  and  Him  were  dry. 


WHITE  LIKS. 


125 


The  soldier  stood,  his  right  foot  on 
the  step  and  his  sword  in  his  left 
hand,  transfixed  :  listening  gravely  to 
the  agony  of  prayer  the  innocent 
young  creature  poured  forth  within. 

"  O  Mother  of  God  !  hear  me  :  it  is 
for  my  mother's  life.  She  will  die,  — 
she  will  die  !  You  know  she  cannot 
live  if  she  is  taken  away  from  her 
house  and  from  this  holy  place  where 
she  prays  to  you  this  many  years.  O 
Queen  of  Heaven  !  put  out  your  hand 
to  us  unfortunates  !  Virgin,  hear  a 
virgin  !  —  mother,  listen  to  a  child 
who  prajvs  for  her  mother's  life  !  The 
doctor  says  she  will  not  live  away 
from  here.  Siie  is  too  old  to  wander 
over  the  world.  Let  them  drive  us 
forth :  we  are  young,  but  not  her, 
mother,  O  not  her !  Forgive  the 
cruel  men  that  do  this  thing  !  —  they 
are  like  those  who  crucified  your  Son, 
—  they  know  not  what  they  are  doing. 
liut  you.  Queen  of  Heaven,  you  know 
all :  and,  sweet  mother,  if  you  have 
kind  sentiments  towards  me,  the  poor 
Josephine,  oh !  show  them  now  :  for 
you  know  it  was  I  who  insulted  that 
wicked  notary,  and  it  is  out  of  hatred 
to  me  he  has  sold  our  beloved  house 
to  a  hard  stranger.  Look  down  on 
me,  a  child  who  loves  her  mother,  yet 
will  destroy  her  imless  you  pity  me 
and  help  me.  0  my  God,  what 
shall  I  say  ?  what  shall  I  do  ?  mer- 
cy !  mercy  !  for  mv  poor  mother,  for' 
me!" 

Here  her  prayer  was  broken  by 
sobs. 

The  soldier  withdrew  his  foot  qui- 
etly. Thought  he,  "  It  is  hardly  the 
part  of  a  man  to  listen  to  this  poor 
girl ;  besides,  I  have  heard  enough  :  her 
words  knock  against  my  breast-bone  : 
let  me  reflect."  And  he  marched 
slowly  to  and  fro  before  the  chapel, 
upright  as  a  dart  and  stiff  as  a  ram- 
rod. 

Josephine's  voice  was  heard  again 
in  prayer. 

llaynal  looked  at  his  watch.  "  She 
docs  not  finish,"  said  he,  quaintly. 

Josephine  little  thought  who  was 
her  sentinel  boforo  the  chapel.     She 


came  to  the  door  at  last,  and  there  he 
was  marching  backwards  and  for- 
wards upright  and  stiff.  She  gave  a 
faint  scream  and  drew  back  with  a 
shudder. 

Not  being  very  quick  at  interpret- 
ing emotion,  llaynal  noticed  her 
alarm,  but  not  her  repugnance  :  he  sa- 
luted her  with  military  precision  by 
touching  his  cap  as  only  a  soldier 
can. 

"  A  word  with  you,  mademoiselle  ! " 

"  AVith  me,  monsieur  1  wiiat  can 
you  have  to  say  to  me  1  "  and  she  be- 
gan to  tremble. 

"  Don't  be  frightened  !  "  said  Ra}-- 
nal,  in  a  tone  not  very  reassuring. 
"  I  propose  an  armistice,  —  a  confer- 
ence." 

"  I  am  at  your  disposal,  monsieur," 
said  Josephine,  assuming  a  calmness 
that  was  belied  by  the  long  swell  of 
her  heaving  bosom. 

"  You  must  not  bo  afraid  of  me, 
my  young  lady,  —  there  is  nothing 
to  be  afraid  of." 

"  No,  monsieur ;  I  am  not  fright- 
ened,—  not  much  frightened,  —  but 
you  are   a  stranger  to  me  —  and  —  " 

"  And  an  enemy." 

"  We  have  no  right  to  hate  you,  sir. 
You  did  not  know  us.  You  just 
wanted  an  estate,  I  suppose  —  and  — 
oh  !  —  " 

"  Let  us  come  to  the  point,  since  I 
am  a  man  of  few  words." 

"If  you  please.  My  mother  may 
miss  me." 

"  I  was  in  position  on  the  flank 
when  the  notary  delivered  his  fire." 

"Yes." 

"  I  saw  the  old  woman's  distress." 

"  Ah!  monsieur." 

"  And  I  said  to  myself,  '  This 
Beaurepaire  campaign  begins  unluck- 
ily.' " 

"It  was  kind  even  to  care  that 
much  for  our  feelings." 

"  When  you  came  flying  out  I  fol- 
lowed to  say  a  word  to  you.  I  could 
not  catch  you.  I  listened  while  yon 
prayed  to  the  Virgin.  That  was  not 
a  soldier-like  trick,  you  will  say.  2 
confess  it." 


126 


WHITE  LIES. 


"  I  am  not  ant^ry,  monsieur,  and 
you  heard  nolhinfr  1  blush  for." 

"  No  !  by  St.  Denis,  — quite  the  con- 
trary. Well,  —  to  the  point.  Youn^^ 
lady,  you  love  your  mother  !  " 

"  What  has  she  on  earth  but  her 
children's  love  ?  " 

"  Young  lady,  I  had  a  mother ;  I 
loved  her,  my  young  lady.  She 
promised  me  faithfully  not  to  die  till 
I  should  be  a  colonel,  —  and  she 
went  and  died  before  I  was  a  com- 
mandant even  ;  just  before,  too." 

"  Then  I  pity  you,"  murmured  Jo- 
sephine. 

"  She  pities  me  !  What  a  wonder- 
ful thing  a  word  is !  No  one  has 
been  able  to  find  the  right  word  to 
say  to  me  till  to-day.  '  Ah  !  bah  ! ' 
says  one.  '  Old  people  will  die,'  says 
another." 

"  Oh  !  " 

"  Take  a  young  one  and  forget  her ! ' 
that  is  the  favorite  cry  of  all,  madem- 
oiselle." 

"  Certainly  a  person  of  monsieur's 
merit  need  never  want  a  young  wo- 
man, but  that  is  different,  —  it  is 
wicked  to  talk  so." 

"  For  all  that,  you  arc  the  only  one 
that  has  said,  '  I  pity  you  ! '  " 

"  I  pity  you  !  "  repeated  Josephine, 
her  soft  purple  eye  beginning  to  dwell 
on  him  instead  of  turning  from  him. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  about  her  and 
me,"  said  Raynal,  eagerly. 

"I  shall  be  honored,"  said  Josephine, 
politely. 

Tlien  he  told  her  all  about  how  he 
had  vexed  her  when  he  was  a  boy, 
and  gone  for  a  soldier  though  she  was 
all  for  trade ;  and  how  he  had  been 
the  more  anxious  to  see  her  enjoy  his 
honors  and  success. 

"  And,  mademoiselle,"  said  he,  ap- 
pealingly,  "  the  day  this  epaulet  was 
put  on  my  shoulder  in  Italy,  she  died 
in  Paris.  Ah !  how  couUl  you  have 
the  heart  to  do  that,  my  old  woman  ?  " 

The  soldier's  mustache  quivered, 
and  he  turned  away  brusquely,  and 
took  several  steps.  Then  he  came 
back  to  Josephine. 

"  Monsieur,"    said    she,    tenderly,  I 


"  she  would  have  lived  if  she  could, 
to  please  you,  not  herself, — it  is  I 
who  tell  you  so." 

"  I  believe  it,"  cried  Raynal,  a  light 
breaking  in  on  him :  "  how  can  you 
read  my  mother  i  you  never  saw 
her  1  " 

"  Perhaps  I  see  her  in  her  son." 

The  purple  eye  had  not  been  idle 
all  this  time. 

"  You  are  wonderfully  quick,"  said 
Raynal,  looking  at  her  with  more  and 
more  surprise,  — "  and  what  is  the 
matter  ?  "  Josephine's  eyes  were  thick 
with  tears.  "  Whati  you  are  within 
an  inch  of  crying  for  my  mother,  — 
you  who  have  your  own  trouble  at 
this  hour." 

"Monsieur,  our  situations  are  so 
alike  I  may  well  spare  some  little  sym- 
pathy for  your  misfortune." 

"  Thank  you,  my  good  young  lady ; 
well,  then,  while  you  were  praying  to 
the  Virgin,  I  was  saying  a  word  or 
two  for  my  part  to  her  who  is  no 
more." 

"Ah!" 

"  O,  it  was  nothing  beautiful  like 
the  things  you  said  to  the  other.  Can 
I  turn  phrases  ?  no  !  I  saw  her  behind 
her  counter  in  the  Rue  Quincampoix  : 
for  she  is  a  woman  of  the  people  is 
my  mother.  I  saw  myself  come  to 
the  other  side  of  the  counter,  and  I 
said,  '  Look  here,  mother,  hero  is  the 
devil  to  pay  about  this  new  house. 
Here  is  the  old  woman  talks  of  dying 
if  we  take  her  from  her  home,  and 
the  young  one  weeps  and  prays  to 
all  the  saints  in  Paradise.  What 
shall  we  do,  —  eh  ?  '  Then  my  old 
woman  said  to  me,  'Jean,  you  are  a 
soldier,  a  sort  of  vagabond,  though 
not  by  my  will.  But,  at  least,  be 
what  you  arc!  What  do  you  want 
with  a  house  in  France  ?  you  who  are 
always  in  a  tent  in  Italy  or  Austria, 
or  who  knows  where  1  Have  you  the 
courage  to  give  honest  folk  so  much 
pain  for  a  caprice  1  your  fine  chateau 
is  n't  worth  it,  my  lad,  it  is  I  who  tell 
you  so.  Come  now,'  says  she,  '  the 
lady  is  of  my  age,  say  you,  and  I  can't 
keep  your  fine  house,  because   God 


WHITE  LIES. 


127 


has  willed  it  otherwise:  so  give  her 
my  pliifc  :  so  tlien  you  can  fancy  it  is 
me  you  have  set  down  at  your  liearth  : 
that  will  warm  your  heart  up  a  bit, 
little  scamp,  go  to,'  said  my  old 
woman,  in  her  rough  way.  She  was 
not  well-bred  like  you,  mademoiselle. 
A  woman  of  the  people,  —  Rue  Quin- 
campoix." 

"  She  was  a  woman  of  God's  own 
making,"  cried  Josephine,  the  tears 
now  running  down  her  cheeks. 

"  That  she  was  !  so  between  her  and 
me  it  is  settled,  —  what  are  you  cry- 
ing for  now  '?  why,  you  have  won  the 
day  :  the  field  is  yours  :  your  mother 
and  you  remain.  I  decamp."  He 
whipped  his  scabbard  up  with  his  left 
hand  and  was  off  pi-obably  for  years, 
perhaps  forever,  if  Josephine  had  not 
stopped  him. 

"  But,  monsieur,  what  am  I  to 
tlritik  ?  what  am  I  to  hope  1  it  is  im- 
possible that  in  this  short  interview 
—  and  we  must  not  forget  what  is  due 
to  you.  You  have  bought  the  es- 
tate." 

"  True !  well,  we  will  talk  of  that 
to-morrow  :  the  house  to-day,  —  that 
was  the  bayonet  thrust  to  the  old 
woman." 

"  Ah  !  yes  !  but,  monsieur !  " 

"  Silence  in  the  ranks  !  "  cried  he, 
sharply :  "  mind  I  am  more  used  to 
command  than  listen  in  this  district !  " 

"  Monsieur,  I  will  obey  you,"  said 
Josephine,  a  little  fluttered. 

liaynal  checked  her  alarm.  "  The 
order  is,  that  you  run  in  and  put  the 
old  lady's  heart  at  rest.  Tell  her  that 
she  may  live  and  die  here  for  Jean 
Raynal :  above  all,  tell  her  about  the 
old  woman  in  the  Rue  Quincampoix : 
only  put  it  in  your  own  charming 
phrases,  you  know." 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  I  go.  God  bless 
you.  Monsieur  Raynal ! " 

"  Are  you  going  1 "  said  he,  per- 
emptorily. 

"  0  3^es  !  "  and  she  darted  towards 
the  chateau. 

Now,  when  she  had  taken  three 
steps,  she  paused,  and  seemed  irreso- 
lute.    She  turned,  and  in  a  moment 


she  had  glided  to  Raynal  again  and 
had  taken  his  hand  before  he  could 
hinder  her,  and  pressed  two  velvet 
lips  on  it,  and  was  away  again,  her 
checks  scarlet  at  what  she  had  done, 
and  her  wet  eyes  beaming  with  joy. 
She  skimmed  the  grass  like  a  lapwing, 
—  you  would  have  taken  her  at  this 
moment  for  Laure,  or  for  Virgil's 
Camilla :  at  the  gate  she  turned  an 
instant  and  clasped  her  hands  to- 
gether, to  show  Raynal  she  blessed 
him  again,  then  darted  into  the  house. 

"Aha!  my  gaillarde,"  said  he,  as 
he  watched  her  fly,  "  behold  you 
changed  a  little  since  you  came  out." 
He  was  soon  on  the  high  road  march- 
ing down  to  the  town  at  a  great  rate, 
his  sword  clanking,  and  thus  ran  his 
thoughts : — 

"  This  does  one  good,  —  you  are 
right,  my  old  woman.  My  bosom 
feels  as  warm  as  a  toast.  Long  live 
the  five-franc  pieces  !  And  they  pre- 
tend money  cannot  Tnake  a  fellow 
happy.  They  lie !  It  is  that  they 
don't  know  how  to  spend  it !  Good 
Heavens  !  one  o'clock !  a  whole  morn- 
ing gone  talking." 

Meantime  at  the  chateau,  as  still 
befalls  in  emergencies  and  trials,  the 
master  spirit  came  out  and  took  its 
real  place. 

Laure  was  now  the  mistress  of 
Beaurepaire. 

She  set  Jacintha,  and  Dard,  and  the 
doctor,  to  pack  up  everything  of  value 
in  the  house. 

"Do  it  this  moment,"  she  cried; 
"once  that  notary  gets  possession  of 
the  house  it  will  be  too  late." 

"  But  have  we  the  right "? "  asked 
St.  Aubin. 

"  Do  it,"  was  the  sharp  reply. 
"  Enough  of  folly  and  helplessness. 
We  have  fooled  away  house  and 
lands  :  our  movables  shall  not  fol- 
low them." 

Having  set  the  others  to  work,  she 
wrote  a  hasty  line  to  Riviere  to  tell 
him  tlie  chateau  and  lands  were  sold, 
and  with  this  letter  she  ran  herself  to 
Bigot's    auherge,    the    nearest    post- 


128 


WHITE   LIES. 


office,  ami  tlien  she  ran  back  to  com- 
I'ort  her  inotlicr. 

The  baroness  was  seated  in  her  arm- 
chair, moaning,  and  wringing  her 
hands,  and  Laura  was  nursing  and 
soothing  her,  and  bathing  her  temples 
with  her  last  drop  of  eau  de  Cologne, 
and  trying  in  vain  to  put  some  of  her 
own  courage  into  her,  when  in  came 
Josephine  radiant  with  happiness, 
crying,  "  Joy  !  joy  !  joy  !  "  and  told 
her  strange  tale  much  as  I  have  told 
it,  with  this  exception,  that  she  re- 
lated her  own  share  in  it  briefly  and 
coldly,  and  was  more  eloquent  than  I 
about  the  strange  soldier's  goodness, 
and  the  interest  her  mother  had  awa- 
kened in  his  heart.  And  she  told  about 
the  old  woman  in  the  Rue  Quincam- 
poix,  her  rugged  phrases,  and  her 
noble,  tender  heart :  and  she  ascribed 
all  to  the  Virgin. 

"  Heaven  is  on  our  side,  my  mother. 
Courage,  my  mother  ! " 

The  baroness,  deaf  to  Laure,  bright- 
ened up  directly  at  Josephine's  news, 
and  her  glowing  face,  as  she  knelt  be- 
fore her  mother,  pouring  the  good 
news,  and  Iiope,  and  comfort,  point- 
blank  into  her  face,  as  well  as  her 
heart.     But  Laure  chilled  them  both. 

"It  is  a  generous  offer,"  said  she; 
"  but  one  we  cannot  accept." 

"  Not  accept  it,"  cried  ihe  baroness, 
with  dismay. 

"  We  cannot  live  under  so  great  an 
obligation.  Is  all  the  generosity  to  be 
on  the  side  of  this  Bonapartist  ?  —  we 
are  then  noble  in  name  only.  What 
would  our  father  have  said  to  such  a 
proposal  ?  " 

Josephine  hung  her  head.  The 
baroness  groaned. 

"No!  my  mother,  let  house  and 
land  go,  but  honor  and  true  nobility 
remain." 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  you  are  cruel 
to  me,  my  daughter." 

"  Mamma,"  cried  the  enthusiastic 
girl,  "  we  need  depend  on  no  one. 
Josephine  and  I  have  youth  and  spirit, 
and  j'ou  have  money." 

"  We  have  no  money.  We  are  beg- 
gars !  " 


"  We  have  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  !  " 

"  A  hundred  thousand  francs  1  Are 
you  mad  ?  " 

"  No,  mamma  :  our  debts  were  two 
hundred  and  twenty-five  thousand 
francs.  But  the  estate,  owing  to  the 
increase  of  the  rents,  has  sold  for  two 
hundred  and  ninety-five  thousand 
francs." 

"  How  can  you  know  what  it  sold 
for  1  " 

"  Edouard's  letter  told  us  his  nota- 
ry would  not  let  it  go  for  less.  Seven- 
ty thousand  francs,  therefore,  of  the 
purchase-money  is  ours.  And  we  have 
movables  worth  thirty  thousand 
francs.  With  a  portion  of  this  mon- 
ey, if  you  will  permit  me,  I  will  take  a 
farm.  By  the  by,  there  are  one  thou- 
sand francs  in  the  house,  too." 

"  A  farm  !  "  shrieked  the  baroness. 

"Edouard's  uncle  has  a  farm,  and 
we  have  had  recourse  to  him  for 
help." 

"  Ah  !  behold  the  key  of  the  enig- 
ma," said  the  baroness,  satirically. 
"  It  is  the  child's  lover  who  has  been 
speaking  to  us  all  this  time,  not  her- 
self. A  farm-house !  I  prefer  the 
grave  !  " 

"  Better  a  farm-house  than  an  alms- 
house," cried  Laure,  "  though  that 
almsliouse  were  palace  instead  of  cha- 
teau !  " 

Josephine  winced,  and  held  up  her 
hand  deprecatingly. 

The  baroness  paled  :  it  was  a  terri- 
ble stroke  of  language  to  come  from 
her  daughter. 

She  said  sternly  :  — 

"  There  is  no  answer  to  that.  We 
were  born  nobles,  let  us  die  farmers  : 
only  permit  me  to  die  the  first." 

"  Forgive  me,  my  mother,"  said 
Laure,  kneeling.  "  I  was  wrong,  — 
it  is  for  me  to  obey  you,  —  not  to  dic- 
tate. I  S])eak  no  more."  And,  after 
kissing  her  mother  and  Josephine,  she 
crept  liumbly  away. 

"  The  moment  they  have  a  lover  he 
detaches  their  hearts  from  their  poor 
old  mother.  She  is  not  to  me  now 
what  my  Josephine  is." 


WHITE  LIES. 


129 


"  Mamma,  she  is  my  superior.  I 
see  it  more  and  more  everyday.  She 
is  proud  :  she  is  just.  She  looks  at 
both  sides.  Your  poor  Josephine  is 
too  apt  to  see  only  those  she  loves  !  " 

"  And  that  is  the  daughter  for 
me ! "  cried  the  baroness,  opening 
her  arms  wide  to  her. 

Josephine  nestled  to  her,  and 
soothed  her  all  day,  and  kept  telling 
her  Heaven  was  on  their  side,  and  she 
should  never  have  to  leave  Bcaure- 
paire. 

"Let  me  temporize,"  thought  Jo- 
sephine, "  and  keep  her  happy :  that  is 
tlie  first  consideration." 

The  next  morning  when  they  were 
at  breakfast,  in  came  Jacintha  to  say 
the  officer  was  in  the  dining-room,  and 
wanted  to  speak  with  the  young  lady 
he  talked  to  yesterday.  Josephine  rose 
and  went  to  him. 

"  Well,  mademoiselle,"  said  he,  gay- 
ly,  "  the  old  woman  was  right.  Here 
I  have  just  got  my  orders  to  march  :  to 
leave  France  in  a  month.  A  pretty 
business  it  would  have  been  if  I  iiad 
turned  your  mother  out.  So  you  see 
there  is  nothing  to  hinder  you  from 
living  here." 

"  In  your  house,  monsieur  ?  " 

"  Why  not  1  Are  you  too  proud  ?  " 

"  Forgive  us  !  It  is  a  fault  that 
should  not  survive  our  fortunes." 

"  Well,  but  —  yesterday." 

"  I  have  reflected.     I  was  unjust." 

"  If  such  an  oft'er  was  made  to  my 
mother,  instead  of  yours,  I  should  not 
be  too  proud  to  take  it ;  but  it  seems 
you  belong  to  the  nobility.  Now  I 
rose  from  the  ranks ;  so  I  have  no 
right  to  be  proud." 

Raynal  said  tliis  inadvertently,  and 
in  good  faith.  But  the  quicker  Jose- 
phine read  it  satirically  and  ironically. 
She  colored  up. 

"  Forgive  me,  sir,  if  I  have  offended 
you.  It  was  as  far  from  my  intention 
as  from  your  merit." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  0,  your  delicacy  does  not  surprise 
Kie,  neither.     I  can  understand  it." 

"  I  am  sure  you  can." 

Another  pause. 
6* 


"  Confound  it,"  roared  Raynal,  an- 
grily, "why  did  I  go  and  buy  the 
house  ■?     I  did  n't  want  it." 

"  Some  other  would  have  bought 
it,  some  one  more  severe,  less  con- 
siderate, than  you,  monsieur.  I  beg 
you  to  believe  that  it  is  a  great  com- 
fort to  us  not  to  be  removed  with  an 
unkind  hand  from  so  beloved  a  place." 

There  was  another  silence.  Ray- 
nal was  puzzled.  He  sentinelled  Brit- 
tany as  represented  by  a  bad  map  that 
hung  on  the  wall.  Josephine  eyed 
him  furtively,  in  secret  anxiet}',  as  he 
marched  to  and  fro. 

All  this  time  she  had  been  saying 
what  she  felt  she  ought  to  say,  in 
hopes  that  the  man  would  do  his  part, 
and  pooh-pooh  her,  and  carry  out  his 
scheme  for  her  good  in  spite  of  her 
teeth,  —  her  tongue,  rather.  For  to 
decline  the  thing  we  want,  and  so  not 
only  get  it  but  have  it  forced  upon 
us ;  the  advantage  of  having  it  plus 
the  credit  of  refusing  it,  is  delicious : 
is  it  not,  mesdames?  and  well  worth 
risking  all  for  :  is  it  not,  mesdaraes? 

Now  Raynal  was  a  man,  —  a  crea- 
ture not  accustomed  to  disguise  its 
wishes,  and  therefore  apt  to  misinter- 
pret such  as  do  :  above  all,  he  was  an 
honest  man.  A  word  from  him  was 
a  thing,  the  exact  thing  he  meant. 
So  he  took  for  granted  Josephine  was 
saying  exactly  what  she  meant,  and 
she  nonplussed  him. 

When  she  saw  her  success,  she 
wished  she  had  declined  more  faint- 
ly, and  the  interview  was  to  recom- 
mence. 

Had  it  recommenced,  she  would 
have  done  just  the  same  over  again  : 
it  was  not  in  her  blood  to  do  any  oth- 
er. Luckily  Raynal's  brown  study 
resulted  in  a  fresh  idea. 

"  I  have  it,"  said  he,  "  this  must  be 
settled  by  a  third  party,  a  mutual 
friend,  some  one  more  skilful  than  I, 
and  who  can  arrange  this  trifle  so  as 
not  to  shock  your  delicacy.  I  am  no 
diplomatist." 

Raynal  interrupted  himself  by  sud- 
denly opening  a  window  and  shout* 
intr :  — 


130 


WHITE   LIES. 


"  Halloa !  come  here,  —  you  are 
wanted." 

Josephine  almost  screamed :  "  What 
are  you  doing,  monsieur ;  that  is  our 
enemy,  our  bitterest  enemy.  He  only 
sold  you  the  estate  to  spite  us,  not 
for  the  love  of  you.  I  had  —  he  had 
—  we  mortified  his  vanity.  It  was 
not  our  fault  —  he  is  a  viper.  0  sir, 
pray  be  on  your  guard  against  his 
counsels." 

These  words,  spoken  with  great  fire 
and  earnestness,  carried  conviction, 
and,  when  the  notary  came  in,  the 
contrast  between  the  invitation  that 
brought  him  and  the  reception  that 
met  him  twenty  seconds  after  was 
droll. 

Penin  started  at  sight  of  Josephine, 
and  Raynal  hardly  knew  what  to  say 
to  him.  Whilst  he  hesitated,  the  no- 
tary, little  suspecting  what  had  oc- 
curred, began :  — 

"  So  you  have  taken  possession, 
monsieur.  These  military  men  are 
prompt,  are  tliey  not,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  Do  not  speak  to  me,  monsieur," 
said  Josephine,  quietly. 

"  Why  not  1  We  ought  to  enter- 
tain our  guests." 

"  Mademoiselle  is  at  home,"  said 
Raynal,  sternly  ;  "  address  her  with 
respect,  or  she  will  perhaps  order  you 
out." 

"  She  is  very  capable,  monsieur," 
said  the  notary,  "  but  luckily  she  has 
no  one  to  order." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  said 
Raynal. 

The  notary  looked  round  uneasily, 
expecting  to  see  young  Riviere.  lie 
turned  the  conversation. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  in  a  mere 
tone  of  business,  "it  is  my  duty  as 
M.  Raynal's  agent  to  inform  you, 
that  whatever  movables  you  have 
removed  are  yours ;  those  that  we 
find  in  the  house  upon  entering  are 
ours  "  ;   and  he  grinned. 

"  And  as  we  are  not  going  to  enter 
for  a  week  or  two,  if  at  all,  you  will 
have  plenty  of  time  to  shift  your 
chairs  and  tables,"  explained  Raynal. 

"  Monsieur,"      said      the      notary. 


"  really  I  do  not  understand  you. 
Have  I  done  anything  to  merit  this  T 
Have  I  served  you  so  ill  that  you 
withdraw  your  confidence  from  me "? " 

"  No,"  said  Raynal,  "  but  you  ex- 
ceed your  powers,  my  lad.  I  com- 
mand, —  you  obey." 

"  So  be  it,  monsieur.  What  are 
your  orders,  and  what  on  earth  is  the 
meaning  of  all  this  ?  " 

"  The  meaning  is  this.  I  want 
mademoiselle  and  her  family  to  stay 
here  while  I  go  to  Egypt  with,  the 
First  Consul.  Mademoiselle  makes 
difficulties,  —  it  oflTends  her  delicacy." 

"  Comediel" 

"  Though  her  mother's  life  depends 
on  her  staving  here." 

"  Comedie!" 

"  Her  pride  is  like  to  be  too  much 
for  her  affection." 

"  Farce  !  " 

"  I  pitched  upon  you  to  reconcile 
the  two." 

"  Then  you  pitched  upon  the  wrong 
man,"  said  Perrin,  bluntly.  He  added 
obsequiously,  "  I  am  too  much  your 
friend." 

Raynal  frowned. 

"  I  will  never  abet  you  in  such  a 
sin.  She  has  been  talking  you  over 
no  doubt ;  but  you  have  a  friend,  an 
Ulysses,  who  is  deaf  to  the  siren's 
voice.  I  will  be  no  party  to  such  a 
transaction.  I  will  not  co-operate  to 
humbug  my  friend  and  rob  him  of 
his  rights." 

"  Then  bo  off,  that 's  a  good  soul, 
and  send  me  a  more  accommodating 
notary." 

"  A  more  accommodating  notary  !  " 
screamed  Perrin,  stung  to  madness  by 
this  reproach.  "  There  is  not  a  more 
accommodating  notary  in  Europe. 
Ungrateful  man !  is  this  the  return 
for  all  my  zeal,  my  integrity,  my  un- 
selfishness ?  Is  there  another  agent 
in  the  world  who  would  have  let  such 
a  bargain  as  Beaurcpaire  fall  into 
your  hands  ?  Oh  !  it  serves  me  right 
for  deviating  from  the  rules  of  busi- 
ness. Send  me  another  agent — ■ 
oh!!!!" 

The  honest  soldier  was  confused 


WHITE  LIES. 


131 


The  lawyer's  eloquence  overpowered 
him.  He  felt  guilty.  Josephine  saw 
his  simpHcity,  and  made  a  cut  with  a 
woman's  two-edged  sword. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  she,  coldly,  "  do 
you  not  see  it  is  an  affair  of  money  1 
This  is  a  way  of  saying,  pay  me  double 
the  usual  charge  ! " 

"  And  I  '11  pay  him  double  !  "  cried 
jRaynal,  catching  the  idea ;  "  don't  be 
alarmed,  I  '11  pay  you  handsomely." 

"  And  my  zeal  —  my  devotion  1  " 

"  Put  'em  in  figures,  my  lad." 

"  And  my  prob—  ?  " 

"  Add  it  up !  " 

"  And  my  integ—  1 " 

"  Add  them  all  together,  —  and 
don't  bother  me." 

"  I  see  !  I  see !  my  poor  soldier. 
You  are  no  match  for  a  woman's 
tongue." 

"  Nor  a  notary's  !  Go  to  h — , 
and  send  in  your  bill,"  roared  the  sol- 
dier, in  a  fury.  "  Well,  will  you  go, 
or  must  I — "  And  ho  marched  at 
him. 

The  notary  scuttled  out,  with  some- 
thing between  a  snarl  and  a  squeak. 

Josephine  iiid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ? 
Crying  again  ?  Well,  it  is  you  for 
crying." 

"  Me  !  monsieur.  I  never  cry  — 
hardl3%  No  !  I  hid  my  face  because 
—  he  !  he  !  " 

"  Haw  !  haw  !  " 

"  You  frightened  me,  monsieur," 
said  Josephine,  suddenly  assuming  a 
small  reproachful  air.  "  I  was  afraid 
you  would  beat  him." 

"  No  !  no  !  a  good  soldier  never 
leathers  a  civilian,  if  he  can  possibly 
help  it,  —  it  looks  so  bad  :  and  before 
a  lady !  You  must  not  think  I  know 
nothing." 

"  I  would  have  forgiven  you,  mon- 
sieur," said  Josephine,  with  tender 
benignity,  and  something  like  a  little 
eun  danced  in  her  eye. 

"  Now,  mademoiselle,  since  my 
friend  has  proved  a  pig,  it  is  your 
turn.      Choose  you  a  friend." 

"We  have  but  one  fit,  and  he  is 
so  young.      Ah !   how  stupid  I  am. 


You  know  him  !  Monsieur  is  doubt- 
less the  commandant  of  whom  I  once 
heard  him  speak  with  so  much  admi- 
ration,—  liis  name  is  Riviere, — Ed- 
ouard  Riviere." 

"  Know  him  !  he  is  my  best  officer : 
out  and  out." 

"  Ah  !  I  am  so  glad.  Would  it  be 
derogatory  on  the  part  of  monsieur  to 
admit  one  so  young  and  in  a  subordi- 
nate position  ? " 

"  Ah,  bah  !  It  is  not  I  who  makes 
difficulties  :  it  is  you.  Riviere  be  it. 
But  where  is  he  ?  for  I  have  given  the 
young  dog  leave  of  absence." 

"  He  is  at  a  farm-house  near  Rennes, 
at  his  uncle's." 

"  Well,  I  am  going  home.  I  will 
send  him  a  note.  We  will  confer, 
and  we  will  arrange  this  mighty 
affair.  My  general  would  settle  a 
kingdom  in  the  time  we  take.  Mean- 
time tell  the  old  lady  to  pluck  up 
spirit.  My  mother  used  to  say, '  A 
faint  lieart  makes  its  own  troubles.' " 

"  O  what  a  wise  saying  !  " 

"  Say  we  are  none  of  us  dead  yet, 
nor  like  to  be,  and,  mademoiselle,  let 
me  hear  you  sav  courage  7  " 

"  Courage ! '' 

"  Yes  !  only  just  six  times  as  loud 
and  hearty,  '  Courage.'  " 

"  How  good  he  is,  '  Cour-age  ! '  — 
there  !  " 

"  Good  !  on  that  behold  me  gone." 
Clink,  clank,  clank,  clink,  clatter,  clat- 
ter, clank. 

Josephine  came  into  the  saloon 
radiant. 

"  Well !  well !  "  was  the  cry. 

"  Mamma,  he  offered  us  the  house 
again :  I  declined,  Laure  —  0  yes,  I 
declined  firmly." 

"Are  you  mad,  my  poor  Jose- 
phine 1 "  cried  the  baroness,  in  dismay. 

"  No,  mamma !  then  he  proposed  to 
refer  all  this  to  a  third  person,  and  he 
tried  Monsieur  Perrin.  The  man  ar- 
rived just  in  time  to  reveal  his  nature, 
and  be  dismissed  with  ignominy." 

General  exultation. 

"  Then  he  was  so  good  as  to  let  me 
choose  a  referee,  and  I  chose  Edouard 
Riviere." 


132 


WHITE   LIES. 


This  announcement  caused  a  great 
sensation. 

"  He  is  very  j'oung,"  demurred  the 
baroness,  "but  you  know  more  of 
him  than  I  do." 

"  I  know  this,  that  he  will  not  let 
you  be  turned  out  of  Beaurepaire  !  " 

"  Then  I  shall  love  him  well." 

"  Is  that  a  promise,  my  mother  ?  " 

"  That  it  is  !  " 

"A  promise  made  to  your  Jose- 
phine before  these  witnesses  ?  " 

"  A  promise  made  to  my  Jose- 
j)hine,"  said  she ;  and  she  looked  at 
Laure. 

That  young  lady  kept  her  eyes 
steadily  down  on  her  work. 

The  notary  went  home  gnashing 
his  teeth.  His  whole  life  of  success 
was  turned  to  wormwood  this  day. 
Raynal's  parting  commissions  rang  in 
his  ear :  in  his  bitter  mood  the  want 
of  logical  sequence  in  the  two  orders 
disgusted  him. 

He  inverted  them. 

He  sent  in  a  thundering  bill  tlie 
very  next  morning,  and  postponed  the 
other  commission  till  his  dying  day. 

Edouard  Riviere  was  with  diffi- 
culty prevailed  on  to  stay  the  rest  of 
the  evening  at  his  uncle's.  Sorrow 
for  his  friends  and  mortification  at 
his  own  defeat  weighed  him  down. 

He  shook  hands  with  his  uncle,  and 
flung  himself  recklessly  on  his  horse: 
the  horse,  being  rather  fresh,  bolted  off 
with  him  as  soon  as  he  touched  the 
saddle. 

Some  fool  had  left  a  wheelbarrow 
on  his  road ;  and  just  as  Edouard  was 
getting  ills  foot  into  the  off  stirrup 
the  horse  shied  violently,  and  threw 
Edouard  on  the  stones  of  the  court- 
yard. He  jumped  up  in  a  moment 
and  laughed  at  Marthe's  terror ; 
meantime  a  farm-servant  caught  the 
nag  and  brought  him  back  to  his 
work. 

When  Edouard  went  to  put  his 
hand  on  the  saddle,  he  found  it  would 
not  obey  him.  "  Wait  a  minute,  —  my 
arm  is  benumbed." 


"  Let  me  see  !  "  said  the  farmer, 
himself;  "benumbed'?  yes;  and  no 
wonder,  poor  boy.  Jacques,  get  on 
his  horse  and  ride  for  the  surgeon  !  " 

"  Are  you  mad,  uncle  ? "  cried 
Edouard.  "  I  can't  spare  my  horse, 
and  I  want  no  surgeon  :  it  will  be 
well  directly." 

"  It  will  be  worse  before  it  is  better, 
my  poor  lad." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean, 
uncle:  it  is  only  numbed,  ah  !  it  hurts 
when  I  rub  it." 

"  It  is  worse  than  numbed,  Edouard  : 
it  is  broken  ! " 

"  Broken,  uncle  ?  nonsense  "  ;  and 
ho  looked  at  it  in  piteous  bewilder- 
ment. "  How  can  it  be  broken  ?  it 
does  not  hurt,  except  when  I  touch 
it." 

"  It  will  hurt :  I  know  all  about  it. 
I  broke  mine  fifteen  years  ago  :  fell 
off  a  haystack." 

"  O  how  unfortunate  I  am  !  But  I 
will  go  to  Beaurepaire  all  the  same. 
I  can  have  it  mended  there  as  well  as 
here." 

"  You  will  go  to  bed  :  that  is  where 
you  will  go." 

"  I  '11  go  to  blazes  sooner." 

The  old  man  made  a  signal  to  his 
myrmidons  whom  Marthe's  exclama- 
tion had  brouglit  around,  and  four 
stout  i'ellows  took  hold  of  Edouard  by 
the  legs  and  the  left  shoulder,  and  car- 
ried him  up  stairs  raging  and  kicking, 
and  deposited  him  on  a  bed. 

He  began  to  feel  faint,  and  that  made 
him  more  reasonable. 

They  cut  his  coat  off,  and  put  him 
in  a  loose  wrapper,  and  after  a  con- 
siderable delay  the  surgeon  came  and 
set  his  arm  skilfully,  and  behold  this 
ardent  spirit  caged. 

He  chafed  and  fretted  and  retarded 
his  cure.  And  oh  !  he  was  so  peevish 
and  fretful.  Passive  fortitude,  he  did 
not  know  what  it  meant. 

It  was  two  days  after  his  accident. 
He  was  lying  on  his  back  environed 
by  slops,  cursing  his  evil  fate,  and  fret- 
ting his  soul  out  of  its  fleshly  prison, 
when  suddenly  he  heard  a  cheerful 
trombone  saying  three  words  to  Mar- 


WHITE  LIES. 


QT 


13.! 


the,  then  came  a  clink  clank,  and 
Martlie  ushered  into  the  sick-room  the 
Commandant  llaynal.  The  sick  man 
raised  himself  in  bed,  with  great  sur- 
prise and  joy. 

"  O  commandant,  this  is  kind  to 
come  and  see  your  poor  officer  in 
hell !  " 

"  Ah,"  cried  Raynal,  "  you  see  I 
know  what  it  is.  I  have  been  chained 
down  by  the  arm,  and  the  leg,  and  all, 
—  it  is  tiresome." 

"  Tiresome  !  it  is  —  it  is  —  0  dear 
commandant.  Heaven  bless  you  for 
coming  J " 

"  La  !  la  !  la  !  Besides  I  am  come 
on  business." 

"  All  the  better.  I  have  nothing  to 
do  —  that  is  what  kills  me  —  but  to 
eat  my  own  heart." 

"  Cannibal,  go  to.  Well,  my  lad, 
since  you  are  in  that  humor,  cheer  up, 
for  I  bring  you  a  job,  and  a  tough 
one,  —  it  has  puzzled  me." 

"  What  is  it,  commandant?  What 
is  it  ?  " 

"  Well.  Do  you  know  a  house  and 
a  family  called  Beaurepaire  1 " 

"  Do  I  know  Beaurepaire  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"A  LETTER  for  mademoiselle." 
"Ah!" 

"  No,  not  for  you,  Mademoiselle 
Laure,  for  mademoiselle." 

"  Madimoiselle :  Before  I  could 
Jiiid  time  lo  write  to  our  referee,  news 
came  in  that  he  had  just  broken  his 
arm,  so  I  — " 

"Oh!  oh!  dear  —  our  poor  Ed- 
ouard ! " 

And  if  poor  Edouard  had  seen  the 
pale  faces,  and  heard  the  faltering  ac- 
cents, it  would  have  reconciled  him  to 
his  broken  arm  almost.  This  hand  gre- 
nade the  commandant  had  dropped  so 
coolly  among  them,  it  was  a  long 
while  ere  they  could  recover  from  it 
enough  to  read  the  rest  of  the  let- 
ter :  — 


"  so  I  rode  over  lo  him,  and  found  him 
on  his  buck-,fr<rttinp  for  want  of  some- 
thing  to  do.  I  told  him  the  whole  stori/. 
He  undertook  the  business.  I  have  re- 
ceived his  secret  instructions,  and  next 
week  shall  be  at  his  quarters  to  clear  off 
his  arrears  of  business,  and  make  ac- 
quaintance with  all  your  family,  if  they 
permit.  "  Raynal." 

As  the  latter  part  of  this  letter 
seemed  to  require  a  reply,  the  baron- 
ess wrote  a  polite  note,  and  Jacintha 
sent  Dard  to  leave  it  for  the  com- 
mandant at  Riviere's  lodgings.  But 
first  they  all  sat  down  and  wrote  kind 
and  pitying  and  soothing  letters  to 
Edouard.  Need  I  say  these  letters 
fell  upon  Iiim  like  halm  ? 

Next  week  Raynal  called  on  the 
baroness.  She  received  him  alone. 
They  talked  about  Madame  Raynal. 
The  next  day  he  dined  with  the  whole 
part}',  and  the  commandant's  man- 
ners were  the  opposite  of  what  the 
baroness  had  inculcated.  But  she 
had  a  strong  prejudice  in  his  favor. 
Had  her  feelings  been  the  other  way, 
his  brusquerie  would  have  shocked 
her.  It  amused  her.  If  people's 
hearts  arc  with  you,  that  for  their 
heads !  In  common  with  them  all, 
she  admired  his  frank  and  manly 
sincerity.  He  came  every  day  for  a 
week,  chatted  with  the  baroness, 
walked  with  the  young  ladies,  and 
when,  after  work,  he  came  over  in  the 
evening,  Laure  used  to  cross-examine 
him  ;  and  out  came  such  descriptions 
of  battles  and  sieges,  such  heroism 
and  such  simplicity  mixed,  as  made 
the  evening  pass  delightfully.  On 
these  occasions  the  young  ladies 
fixed  their  glowing  eyes  on  him,  and 
drank  in  his  character  as  well  as  his 
narrative,  in  which  were  fewer  "  I 's  " 
than  in  anything  of  the  sort  you  ever 
read. 

Thus  they  made  acquaintance 
and  learned  to  know  and  esteem 
him. 

Josephine  said  to  her  mother ; 
"  Tell  me,  mamma,  are  there  many 
such  men  in  the  world  i  " 


134 


WHITE  LIES. 


"  He  is  charming,"  replied  the  old 
lady,  somewhat  vaguely. 

"  He  is  a  man  of  crystal :  he 
never  says  a  word  he  does  not 
mean." 

"  Why,  Josephine  !  "  said  Laure, 
"  have  you  not  observed  he  always 
means  more  than  he  says,  and  does 
more  ?  " 

"I  wish  I  was  like  him,"  sighed 
Josephine. 

"  No,  I  thank  you," said  the  baron- 
ess, iiastily,  "he  is  a  man:  a  thor- 
ough man.  He  would  make  an  in- 
tolerable woman.  A  fine  life  if  one 
had  a  parcel  of  women  about  one  all 
blurting  out  their  real  minds  every 
moment,  and  never  smoothing  mat- 
ters." 

"  Mamma,  what  a  horrid  picture  !  " 
cried  Laure. 

"Josephine,"  said  the  baroness, 
"  you  are  the  favorite,  I  think  ?  " 

"  O  no  !  mamma,  you  are  the  fa- 
vorite, you  know." 

"  Well :  perhaps  I  am,"  and  she 
smiled.  "  But  he  has  already  opened 
the  subject  with  you,  never  with  me." 

Jacintha  came  in  and  interrupted 
the  conversation  :  "  Mademoiselle,  the 
commandant  is  in  the  Pleasance." 

"Well?" 

"  He  would  be  glad  to  speak  to 
you" 

''  I  will  come." 

"  How  droll  he  is  !  "  said  Laure  ; 
"  fancy  his  sending  for  a  young  lady 
like  that :  he  is  like  nobody  else. 
Don't  go,  Josephintj :  how  he  would 
stare." 

"  My  dear,  I  no  more  dare  disobey 
him  than  if  I  was  one  of  his  sol- 
diers." 

"  Well  go  to  your  commanding  of- 
ficer." 

"  He  comes  apro/x>s.  I  was  just 
going  to  tell  you  to  ask  him  what 
Edouard  has  proposed  about  Beaure- 
paire." 

"  I  will  try,  mamma.  But  indeed  I 
hope  he  will  speak  first,  for  what  else 
can  he  want  me  for  ?  " 

After  the  first  salutation,  there  was 
a    certain    hesitation    about    Ilavnal 


which  Josephine  had  never  seen  a 
trace  of  in  liim  before.  So  to  put 
him  at  his  ease,  and  at  the  same  time 
please  her  mother,  she  began  :  — 

"  Monsieur,  has  our  friend  Edouard 
been  able  to  suggest  anything  ? " 

"  What,  don't  you  know  that  I  have 
been  acting  all  along  upon  his  in- 
structions?" 

"No  indeed!  and  you  have  not  told 
us  what  he  advised !  " 

"Told  you  ?  why,  of  course  not, — 
they  were  secret  instructions." 

"And  do  yoii  mcTn  to  obey  them  ?  " 

"To  the  letter !  I  have  obeyed  one 
set,  and  now  I  come  to  the  other,  and 
there  is  the  difficulty." 

"  But  is  not  this  inverting  tlie  order 
of  things  for  you  to  obey  that  boy  ?  " 

"  A  man  is  no  soldier  unless  he  can 
obey  as  well  as  command,  and  in  ev- 
erything somebody  must  command. 
He  is  very  shrewd  in  these  matters, 
that  boy :  and  my  only  fear  is  that  I 
shall  fall  short  in  carrying  out  his  or- 
ders, —  not  from  want  of  good-will, 
but  of  skill  and  experience." 

Josephine  looked  thoroughly  mys- 
tified. 

"  You  see,  mademoiselle,  it  is  a  kind 
of  warflvre  I  know  nothing  about." 

"  It  must  be  savage  warfare  then  1 " 

"  No  !  it  is  not.  I  don't  know  how 
to  begin  :  by  all  the  devils  I  am 
afraid  !  "  and  he  stared  with  surprise 
at  himself. 

"  That  must  be  a  new  sensation  to 
you,  monsieur  !  I  think  I  understand 
you  :  you  fear  a  repulse,  you  meditate 
some  act  of  singular  delicacy  ?  " 

"  No  !  rather  the  reverse !  " 

"  Of  generosity  then  1  " 

"  No,  by  St.  Denis  !  Confound  the 
young  dog,  why  is  he  not  here  to  help 
me  i  " 

"But  after  all  you  have  only  to 
carry  out  his  instructions." 

"  That  is  true  !  that  is  true !  but 
when  one  is  a  coward,  a  poltroon." 

This  repeated  assertion  of  cowardice 
on  the  part  of  the  living  Damascus 
blade  that  stood  bolt  upright  before 
her  struck  Josephine  as  so  funny 
that  she  laughed  merrily. 


WHITE   LIES. 


135 


"  Fancy  it  is  only  «,  fort  you  are  at- 
tacking instead  of  the  terrible  me,  — 
he !  he  ! " 

"  Thank  you,"  cried  Ritynal  warm- 
ly, "  you  are  very  good  to  put  in  an  en- 
couraging word  like  that!"  and  the 
soldier  rallied  visibly.  "  Allans  !  "  he 
cried,  "it  is  only  a  fort,  —  mademoi- 
selle ! " 

"  Monsieur ! " 

"  Hum !  will  you  lend  me  your 
hand  a  moment?  " 

"  My  hand,  what  for  ?  —  there," 
and  she  put  it  out  an  inch  a  minute. 

He  took  hold  of  it. 

"  A  charming  hand  !  the  hand  of  a 
virtuous  woman  ? " 

"  Yes  !  "  said  Josephine,  as  cool  as 
a  cucumber,  too  sublimely  and  ab- 
surdly innocent  even  to  blush. 

"  Is  it  your  own  '\  " 

"  Monsieur ! "  —  she  blushed  at 
that,  I  can  tell  you. 

"  Because,  if  it  was,  I  would  ask 
you  to  give  it  mc.     I  'vc  done  it !  " 

Josephine  whipped  it  off  his  palm, 
where  it  lay  like  cream  spilt  on  a 
table. 

"  Ah  !  I  see,  you  are  not  free  :  you 
have  a  lover  1 " 

"  No  !  no  !  "  cried  Josephine,  in  dis- 
tress, "I  love  nobody  but  my  mother 
and  my  sister  :  I  never  shall." 

"  Ah  !  your  mother  !  that  reminds 
me.  He  told  me  to  ask  her :  by  Jove, 
I  think  he  told  me  to  ask  her  first  "  ; 
and  he  up  with  his  scabbard  and  ran 
off. 

Josephine  begged  iiim  not  to. 

"  I  can  save  you  the  trouble,"  said 
she. 

"  0,  I  don't  mind  a  little  trouble. 
My  instructions !  my  instructions  !  " 
and  he  ran  into  the  house. 

Laure  came  out  the  next  moment, 
for  the  soldier  had  demanded  a  tete-a- 
tete  abruptly. 

She  saw  her  sister  walking  pen- 
sively, and  ran  to  her. 

"  O  Laure,  he  has  !  !  !  ! " 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  " 

"  It  is  not  his  fault ;  it  is  your 
Edouaid  wiio  set  him  to  do  it." 

"  Mv   Edouard  ?      Don't    talk    in 


that  horrid  way ;  1  have  no  Edouard. 
You  said  '  no,'  of  course." 

"  Something  of  the  kind." 

"  Something  of  the  kind  !  What, 
did  you  not  say  '  no  '  plump  ? " 

"  I  did  not  say  it  brutally,  dear." 

"Josephine,  you  frighten  me.  I 
know  you  can't  say  '  no  '  to  any  one  ; 
and  if  you  don't  say  '  no  '  plump  to 
such  a  man  as  this,  you  might  as  well 
say  '  yes.'  " 

"  Indeed  I  said  nothing  that  could 
be  construed  into  consent." 

This  did  not  quite  satisfy  Laure, 
and  she  dilated  on  the  advantages  of 
a  plump  "negative,"  and  half  scolded 
Josephine  for  not  having  learned  to 
say  "  no  "  plump  to  anybody. 

"  Well,  love,"  said  Josephine,  "our 
mother  will  relieve  me  of  all  this. 
What  a  comfort  to  have  a  mother  ! " 

"  O  yes,  but  why  lean  on  her  ?  You 
are  always  for  leaning  on  somebody." 

"  What,  may  not  I  lean  on  my 
own  mother  ?  " 

"No;  learn  to  lean  on  nobody  — 
but  me." 

Raynal  came  out  of  the  house,  and 
walked  up  to  the  sisters. 

Laure  seized  Josephine,  and  held 
her  tight,  and  cast  hostile  glances. 

"  Now  hold  your  tongue,  Josephine ; 
you  can't  say  '  no '  plump ;  leave  it 
to  me." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Jose- 
phine. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Laure,  before  he 
could  speak,  "  even  if  she  had  not 
declined,  we  could  not  consent,  —  so 
you  see." 

"  I  have  no  instructions  to  ask 
your  consent,"  said  Raynal,  brusquely. 

Laure  colored  high. 

"  Is  her  own  consent  to  be  dis- 
pensed with  too  ?  She  declined  the 
honor,  did  she  not  ?  " 

"  Of  course  she  did ;  but  my  in- 
structions are,  not  to  take  the  first 
two  or  three  refusals." 

"  0  Josephine,  it  is  that  insolent 
boy  who  sets  him  on  !  " 

"  Insolent  boy  !  "  cried  Raynal, 
angrily ;  "  why,  it  is  the  referee  of 
your  own   choosing,  and  as  well-be- 


13G 


WHITE  LIES. 


haved  a  lad  as  ever  I  saw,  and  a  zeal- 
ous officer." 

"  My  friends,"  put  in  Josephine, 
with  a  sweet  Linguor,  "  I  cannot  let 
you  quariel  about  a  straw." 

"  It  is  not  a  straw,"  said  Raynal, 
"  it  is  you." 

"  The  distinction  involves  a  com- 
pliment. Laure,  you  who  arc  so 
shrewd,  is  it  possible  you  do  not  see 
Monsieur  Raynal's  strange  proposal 
in  its  true  light  ?  This  generous 
man  has  no  jiersonal  feeling  in  this 
eccentric  proceeding :  he  wishes  to 
make  us  all  happy,  especially  my 
mother,  without  seeming  to  lay  iis 
under  too  great  an  obligation.  Surely 
good  nature  was  never  carried  so  far 
before.  Ah !  monsieur,  I  will  en- 
cumber you  with  my  friendship  for- 
ever, if  you  permit  me,  but  further 
than  that  I  will  not  abuse  your  gener- 
osity." 

"Now  look  here,  mademoiselle," 
began  Kaynal,  bluntly,  "  I  did  start 
with  a  good  motive  at  first,  that  I  con- 
fess. But  since  I  have  been  every 
day  in  your  company,  and  seen  how 
good  and  kind  you  arc  to  all  about 
you,  I  have  turned  selfish  ;  and  I  say 
to  myself,  what  a  comfort  such  a  wife 
as  you  would  be  to  a  soldier  !  Why, 
only  to  have  you  to  write  letters  home 
to  would  be  worth  half  a  fellow's  pay. 
Do  you  know  sometimes  when  I  see 
the  fellows  writing  their  letters  it 
gives  me  a  knock  here  to  think  I  have 
no  one  at  all  to  write  to." 

"Ah!" 

"  So  you  see  I  am  not  so  disinter- 
ested. Now,  madernoiselie,  you  speak 
so  charmingly  I  can't  tell  what  you 
mean.  Can't  tell  whether  you  say 
*  no,'  because  you  could  never  like 
me,  or  whether  it  is  out  of  delicacy, 
and  j'ou  only  want  pressing.  So  I 
say  no  more  :  it  is  a  standing  offer. 
Take  a  day  to  consider.  Take  two 
if  you  like.  I  must  go  to  the  bar- 
racks. By  the  by,  your  mother  has 
consented,  —  good  day." 

He  was  gone  ere  tliey  could  recover 
the  amazement  his  last  words  caused 
them. 


"  Oh!  this  must  be  put  an  end  to 
at  once,  Josephine." 

"  Certainly,  —  if  possible." 

"  Will  you  speak  to  our  mother,  or 
shall  1 1  " 

"  Oh,  you  !  " 

"  Coward  !  " 

"No,  love;  but  you  have  always 
energy  and  will.  I  can  burst  out  on 
great  emergencies ;  but  I  cannot  al- 
ways be  fightin^." 

"  O  my  sister,  and  is  not  this  a 
great  emergency  t " 

"  Yes  :  I  ought  to  feel  it  one ;  but 
I  don't,  —  I  can't." 

"I  can,  then." 

"  That  is  fortunate.  You  then  are 
the  one  to  act.  You  settle  it  with  my 
mother." 

"  I  will.  Well,  where  are  you 
going  ■?  " 

"  Up  stairs,  love." 

"  Wretch  !  do  you  think  I  will  go 
to  our  mother  without  you  1 " 

"  As  you  please." 

They  entered  the  room,  Laure  ask- 
ing herself  in  some  agitation  how 
she  should  begin. 

To  their  surprise  they  found  the 
baroness  walking  up  and  down  the 
room  with  unusual  alacrity.  She  no 
sooner  caught  sight  of  Josephine  than 
she  threw  her  arms  open  to  her  with 
joyful  vivacity  and  kissed  her  warmly. 

"  My  Josephine,  it  is  you  who  save 
us.  lam  a  happy  old  woman.  If  I 
had  all  France  to  pick  from  I  could 
not  have  found  a  man  so  worthy  of 
my  Josephine.  He  is  brave,  he  is 
handsome,  he  is  a  rising  man,  he  is  a 
good  son,  and  good  sons  make  good 
husbands, — and — I  shall  die  at 
Beaurepaire,  shall  I  not,  madame  the 
commandante  ?  " 

Josephine  held  her  mother  round 
the  neck,  but  never  spoke.  After  a 
silence  she  held  her  tighter,  and  cried 
a  little. 

"  What  is  if;  "  asked  the  baroness, 
confidentially  of  Laure,  but  without 
showing  much  concern. 

"  Mamma  !  mamma  !  she  does  not 
love  him  !  " 

"  Love  him  ?  Heaven  forbid  !    She 


WHITK   LIES. 


137 


would  be  no  daugliter  of  mine  if  she 
loved  a  man  at  sight.  A  modest 
woman  loves  licr  husband  only." 

"  But  she  scarcely  knows  Monsieur 
Raynal." 

"  She  knows  more  of  him  than  I 
knew  of  your  father  when  I  married 
him.  She  knows  his  virtues  and  ap- 
preciates them.  I  have  heard  her, 
have  I  not,  love  ?  Esteem  soon  ripens 
into  love  when  they  are  once  fairly 
married." 

"  My  mother,  does  lier  silence  then 
tell  you  nothing  ?  Iler  tears,  —  are 
they  nothing  to  you  ?  " 

"  Silly  child  !  These  are  tears  that 
do  not  scald.  The  sweet  soul  weeps 
because  she  now  for  the  first  time  sees 
she  will  have  to  leave  her  mother. 
Alas  !  my  eldest,  it  is  inevitable.  This 
is  Nature's  decree.  Sooner  or  later 
the  young  birds  must  leav«  the  parent 
nest.  Mothers  are  not  immortal. 
AVhile  they  are  here  it  is  their  duty  to 
c'loose  good  husbands  for  their 
daughters.  My  youngest  chose  for 
licrself,  —  I  consented.  But  for  my 
eldest  I  choose.  We  shall  sec  which 
cho-^c  the  best.  Meantime  we  stay 
at  Beaurepairc,  —  thanks  to  my  treas- 
ure here." 

"  Josephine !  Josephine  !  j'ou  say 
nothing,"  cried  Laure,  in  dismay. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  what  can  I  say  1  I 
love  my  mother  and  I  love  you.  You 
draw  me  different  ways.  I  want  you 
to  be  both  happy." 

"  Then,  if  you  will  not  speak  out, 
I  must.  My  mother,  do  not  deceive 
yourself:  it  is  duty  alone  that  keeps 
her  silent  ;  this  match  is  odious  to 
her." 

"  Then  we  are  ruined  !  Josephine, 
is  tliis  match  odious  to  you  1 " 

"  Not  exactly  odious,  mother;  but 
I  am  very,  very  inditl'erent." 

"  There  !  "  cried  Laure,  trium- 
phantly. 

"  There !  "  cried  the  baroness,  in 
the  same  breath,  triumphantly.  "  She 
esteems  his  character  :  but  his  person 
is  indifferent  to  her :  in  other  words, 
she  is  a  modest  girl,  and  my  daugh- 
ter ;  and  let  me  tell  you,  Laure,  that 


but  for  the  misfortunes  of  our  house, 
both  my  daugliters  would  be  married  as 
I  was,  without  knowing  half  as  much 
of  their  husbands  as  Josephine  knows 
of  this  brave,  honest,  generous,  filial 
gentleman." 

"  Gentleman  !  " 

"  You  arc  right :  I  should  have  said 
noble,  by  the  iieart." 

"  Well,  then,  since  she  will  not  speak 
out,  I  will !  Pity  me  :  I  love  her  so. 
If  this  stranger,  whom  she  does  not 
love,  mamma,  takes  her  away  from 
us,  he  will  kill  me.  I  shall  die,  — 
oh  !  " 

Josephine  left  her  mother  and  went 
to  console  Laure. 

The  baroness  lost  her  temper  at  this 
last  stroke  of  opposition. 

"  Now  the  truth  comes  out,  Laure, 
this  is  selfishness.  Do  not  deceive 
j/OH?-self,  — selfishness  !  " 

"  Mamma ! " 

"  You  are  only  waiting  to  leave 
me  yourself.  Yet  your  elder  sister, 
forsooth,  must  be  kept  here  for  you  ! 
—  till  then."  She  added  more  gently, 
"  let  me  advise  you  to  retire  to  your 
own  room,  and  examine  your  heart 
fairly." 

"iwill." 

"  You  will  find  there  is  a  strong 
dash  of  egoism  in  all  this." 

"  If  I  do  —  " 

"  You  will  retract  your  opposition." 

"  My  heart  won't  let  me  :  but  I 
will  despise  myself  and  be  silent." 

And  the  young  lady  wiio  had  dried 
her  eyes  the  moment  she  was  accused 
of  selfishness  walked,  head  erect,  from 
the  room.  Josephine  cast  a  depre- 
cating glance  at  her  mother. 

"  Yes,  my  angel !  "  said  the  latter, 
"  I  was  harsh.  But  we  are  no  longer 
of  one  mind,  and  I  suppose  never 
shall  be  again." 

"  0  yes,  we  shall !  be  patient !  My 
mother,  you  shall  not  leave  Beau- 
repairc !  " 

The  baroness  colored  faintly  at 
these  four  last  words  of  her  daughter, 
and  hung  her  head. 

Josephine  saw  that,  and  darted  to 
her  and  covered  her  with  kisses. 


138 


WHITE  LIES. 


"  Wliat  have  yon  been  doing  to 
your  mother,  dears  1  her  pulse  is 
very  liigh." 

"  We  had  a  discussion. " 

"  Then  have  no  more  discussions  : 
we  have  tried  her  too  mucli  with  our 
discussions  lately.  A  little  more  of 
this  agitation,  and  I  foresee  a  palpita- 
tion of  the  heart." 

"  O  let  me  go  to  her ! "  cried 
Laure. 

"  On  tiie  contrary,  do  pray  let  her 
be  quiet.  I  have  scut  her  to  lie  down 
till  dinner-time.  But  you  really  must 
adopt  a  course  with  her,  and  adhere 
to  it." 

"  We  will,  wo  will.  What  shall 
we  do  1 " 

"  Let  her  have  her  own  way.  She 
won't  be  here  so  very  long  that  we 
should  thwart  her.  I  repent  my 
share  in  it :  my  dears,  I  do  not  like 
her  symptoms." 

"  O  doctor  !    my  darling  mother." 

"  Depend  upon  it,  her  mind  is  not 
at  rest.  She  is  not  easy  yet  about 
Beaurepaire.  In  her  heart  she  thinks 
she  will  be  turned  adrift  upon  the 
world  some  day,  and  with  as  little 
warning  as  that  Satan  of  a  notary 
gave  her :  that  morning's  work  has 
shaken  her  all  to  pieces." 

Laure  sighed,  Josephine  smiled. 

The  commandant  did  not  come  to 
dinner  as  usual.  The  evening  passed 
heavily :  their  hearts  were  full  of 
uncertainty. 

"  We  miss  our  merry,  spirited 
companion,"  said  the  baroness,  with 
a  grim  look  at  Laure.  Both  3'oung 
ladies  assented  with  ludicrous  eager- 
ness. 

That  night  Laure  came  and  slept 
with  Josephine,  and  more  than  once 
she  awoke  with  a  start,  and  seized 
Josephine  convulsively  and  held  her 
tight. 

The  commandant  did  not  come  for 
his  answer  next  day,  but  in  his  place 
a  letter  to  say  he  was  obliged  to  go 
to  head-quarters  for  two  days,  but 
would  then  return  and  attack  the  fort 
again  until  it  should  capitulate. 
Between    the    discussion    with    her 


mother  and  the  receipt  of  this  letter, 
Laure  had  been  very  sad,  and  very 
thoughtful.  Accused  of  egoism  !  at 
first  her  whole  nature  rose  in  arms 
against  the  charge  :  but  after  a  while, 
coming  as  it  did  from  so  revered  a 
person,  it  forced  her  to  serious  self- 
examination.  The  poor  girl  said  to 
herself :  "  Mamma  is  a  shrewd  wo- 
man. Am  I  after  all  deceiving  my- 
self ?  Would  she  be  happy,  and  am 
I  standing  in  the  way  1 "  She  begged 
her  sister  to  walk  with  her  in  the 
park,  that  so  they  might  be  safe 
from  interruption. 

"  I  am  in  deep  perplexity  :  I  can- 
not understand  my  own  sister.  Why 
are  you  so  calm,  and  cold,  while  I 
am  in  tortures  of  anxiety  ?  Have 
you  made  some  resolve  and  not  con- 
fided it  to  your  Laure  ?  " 

"  No,  love.  I  am  scarce  capable 
of  a  resolution,  — I  drift." 

"  Let  mo  put  it  in  other  words, 
then.     How  will  this  end  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  know." 

"  Shall  you  marry  Monsieur  Ray- 
nal,  thenl  answer  me  that." 

"  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  he 
were  to  marry  me." 

"  But  you  said  '  no  ' !  " 

"  Yes,  I  said  '  no '  once." 

"And  don't  you  mean  to  say  it 
again  ?  " 

"  What  is  the  use  ?  you  heard  him 
s.iy  he  would  not  desist  any  the  more, 
and  I  care  too  little  to  persist." 

"  Why  not,  if  he  goes  on  pestering 
you  ?  " 

"He  is  like  you, — all  energy,  at 
all  hours.  I  have  so  little  where  my 
heart  is  unconcerned  :  he  seems,  too, 
to  have  a  wish :  I  have  none  either 
way,  and  my  conscience  says  '  marry 
him!'"  ' 

"  Your  conscience  says  marry  one 
man,  loving  another  1 " 

"  God  forbid  !  my  sister,  I  love  no 
one  :  I  have  loved,  but  now  my  heart 
is  dead  and  says  nothing  :  and  my 
conscience  says,  '  You  are  the  cause 
of  all  your  mother's  trouble  :  you 
are  the  cause  that  Beaurepaire  was 
sold.    Now  you  can  repair  that  mis- 


WHITE   LIES. 


139 


chief  and  at  the  same  time  malvo  a 
brave  man  happy,  our  bencnictor 
happy.'  It  is  a  great  temptation  :  I 
hardly  know  why  I  said  '  no  '  at  all, 
surprise  perhaps,  or  to  please  you, 
pretty  one." 

Laure  groaned. 

"  Are    you    then   worth    so    little 
that  you  would  tlirow  yourself  away 
on  a  man  who  does  not  love  you  1  " 
"  He  will  love  me  :  I  see  that." 

"He  does  not  want  you,  he  is  per- 
fectly happy  as  he  is." 

"  Laure,  he  is  not  happy :  he  is 
only  stout-hearted  and  good,  and 
therefore  content :  and  he  is  a  char- 
acter that  it  would  be  easy — in 
short,  I  feel  my  power  here  :  I  could 
make  that  man  happy :  he  has  no- 
body to  write  to  even  when  he  is 
away,  —  poor  fellow !  " 

"  I  shall  lose  my  patience,  Jose- 
phine :  you  are  at  your  old  trick, 
thinking  of  everybody  but  yourself:  I 
let  you  do  it  in  trifles,  but  I  love  you 
too  well  to  permit  it  when  the  happi- 
ness of  your  whole  life  is  at  stake.  I 
must  bo  satisfied  on  one  point :  or  else 
this  marriage  shall  never  take  place  : 
I  will  say  three  words  to  this  Eaynal 
that  will  end  it.  I  leave  you  to  guess 
what  those  words  will  be." 

"  My  poor  Laure,"  replied  Jose- 
phine, "  you  will  not :  for,  if  you  do, 
my  mother  and  Monsieur  Raynal  will 
be  the  sufferers  :  as  for  me,  it  gives  me 
pain  to  refuse  him,  but  I  should  have 
no  objection  whatever  to  be  refused  by 
him." 

"  0,  this  monstrous,  this  stony  in- 
difference !  there,  I  threaten  no  more, 
I  entreat :  my  sister,  be  frank  with  me 
unless  I  have  lost  your  affection." 

"  I  will  speak  to  you,  Laure,  as  I 
would  to  an  angel." 

"  Then  show  me  the  bottom  of  your 
heart." 

"  How  can  I  do  that  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  fathom  my  own  heart !  " 

"  Josephine  !  " 

"  Yourfi,  love,  I  can,  or  our  mother's, 
or  Monsieur  Raynal's,  anybody's,  but 
not  my  own.     Can  you  yours  ?  " 


"  Well !  well !  then  don't,  but  just 
answer  me  this,  and  I  '11  read  you  :  if 
Camille  Dujardin  stood  on  one  side 
and  Monsieur  Raynal  on  the  other, 
and  botb  asked  your  hand,  which 
would  you  take  1 " 

"  That  will  never  be.  Whose  ? 
Not  his  whom  I  despise.  Esteem 
might  ripen  into  love,  but  what  must 
contempt  end  in  1  " 

"  I  am  satisfied  ;  yet  one  question 
more  and  I  have  done.  Suppose 
Camille  should  turn  out  to  be  not 
quite — what  shall  I  say? — inex- 
cusable." 

"  All  the  world  should  not  separate 
me  from  him.  Why  torture  me  with 
such  a  question  ?  Ah  !  I  see  —  O 
Heaven  !  you  have  heard  something. 
I  was  blind.  This  is  why  you  would 
save  me  from  this  unnatural  marriage. 
You  are  breaking  the  good  news  to 
me  by  degrees.  There  is  no  need. 
Quick — quick  —  let  me  have  it.  I 
have  waited  three  years.  I  am  sick 
of  waiting.  Why  don't  you  speak  ? 
Why  don't  you  tell  me?  Then 
I  will  tell  1/ou.  He  is  alive,  —  he 
is  well,  —  he  is  coming.  It  was  not 
he  those  soldiers  saw ;  they  were 
so  far  off.  How  could  they  tell  1 
They  saw  an  uniform,  but  not  a  face. 
Perhaps  he  has  been  a  prisoner,  and 
so  could  not  write,  could  not  come. 
But  he  is  coming  now.  Why  do  you 
groan  ?  —  why  do  you  turn  pale  ?  — 
ah !  I  see,  —  I  have  once  more  de- 
ceived myself.  I  was  mad.  He  I 
love  is  still  a  traitor  to  France  and 
me,  and  I  am  wretched  forever.  Oh 
that  I  were  dead !  —  oh  that  I  were 
dead  !  No  —  don't  speak  to  me  — 
never  mind  me ;  this  madness  will 
pass  as  it  has  before,  and  leave  me  a 
dead  thing  among  the  living  —  and 
so  best.  O  my  sister,  why  did  you 
wake  me  from  my  dream  1  I  was 
drifting  so  calmly,  so  peacefully,  so 
dead,  and  painless,  —  drifting  over  the 
dead  sea  of  the  heart  towards  the  liv- 
ing waters  of  gratitude  and  duty.  I 
was  going  to  make  more  than  one 
worthy  soul  happy ;  and  seeing  them 
happy  I  should  have  been  content  and 


140 


WHITE  LIES. 


useful,  —  what  am  I  now  ?  —  and  com- 
forted other  hearts,  and  died  joyful, — 
and  young,  —  for  God  is  good  :  He 
releases  the  good  and  patient  from 
their  burdens  ! " 

With  this,  quiet  tears  came  to  the 
poor  girl's  relief.  The  short-lived 
storm  was  lulled,  and  Patience  began 
to  creep  slowly  back  to  her  seat  in 
this  large  heart. 

"  Accursed  be  that  man's  name, 
and  cursed  be  my  tongue,  if  ever  I 
utter  it  again  in  yonr  hearing  !  "  cried 
Laure.  "  You  are  wiser  than  I,  and 
every  way  better.  O  Josephine,  love, 
dry  your  tears.  Here  he  comes : 
look  !  riding  across  the  park." 

"  Laure,"  cried  Josephine,  hastily, 
"  I  leave  all  to  you.  Receive  Mon- 
sieur Raynal,  and  decline  his  offer  if 
you  think  proper.  It  is  you  M^ho  love 
me  best.  My  mother  would  give  me 
up  for  a  house,  —  for  an  estate,  —  poor 
dear  ! " 

"  I  would  not  give  you  for  all  the 
world." 

"  I  know  it.  I  trust  all  to  you. 
Whatever  you  decide  I  will  adhere  to, 
upon  my  honor " ;  and  she  moved 
towards  the  house. 

"  Well,  but  don't  go ;  stay  and 
hear  what  I  shall  say." 

"  O  no ;  the  sight  of  that  poor 
man  is  intolerable  to  me  noic.  Let 
me  think  of  his  virtues." 

Laure  was  left  alone,  mistress  of 
her  sister's  fate.  She  put  her  head 
into  her  hands  and  thought  with  all 
her  soul :  — 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

That  now  fell  on  Laure  which  has 
in  like  manner  taken  by  surprise  all 
of  us  who  are  not  utter  fools,  —  doubt. 

She  was  positive  so  long  as  the  de- 
cision did  not  rest  with  her.  Easy  to 
be  an  advocate  in  re  incerta,  —  hard 
to  be  the  judge.*      So  long  as  Laure 

*  Were  you  ever  a  member  of  the  Opposi- 
tion, satirical  and  positive  ?  and  did  an 
adroit  minister,  whom  you  had  badgered 
overmuch,  ever  say  suddenly  to  you,  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  "  You  are  right,  my  lads, 
govern  the  country  "  ?  And  on  that  did  your 
great  heart  collapse  like  a  pricked  bladder  ? 
and  did  your  poor  little  bead  find  out  that  it 


was  opposed  she  had  seen  the  cons 
only,  but  now  the  pros  came  ruuh- 
ing  upon  her  mind. 

"  What  awful  power  a  man  has 
over  a  woman  !  !  I  shall  never  cure 
my  sister  of  this  fatal  passion.  A 
husband  might.  No  happiness  for 
her  unless  she  is  cured  of  it.  Our 
mother  prays  for  it,  —  he  wishes  it. 
She  was  indifterent,  or  not  averse,  be- 
fore I  was  so  mad  as  to  disturb  her 
judgment  with  that  rascal,  whose 
name  she  shall  never  hear  again : 
and  she  will  return  to  that  tranquil 
state  in  a  day  or  two.  Well,  then,  — 
that  she  should  lose  me,  and  I  her, 
for  one  she  does  not  love,  nor  he  her  ! 
How  can  I  decide  ?  and  here  he  is  — 
Heaven  guide  me  !  " 

"  Well,  little  lady,"  cried  the  cheer- 
ful horn,  "  and  how  are  you,  and  how 
is  my  mother-in-law  that  is  to  be,  — 
or  is  not  to  be,  as  your  sister  pleases  1 
and  how  is  she  ?  have  I  frightened 
her  away  ?  There  were  two  petti- 
coats ;  and  now  there  is  but  one." 

"  O  no,  monsieur  !  but  she  left  me 
to  answer  you." 

"All  the  worse  for  me :  I  am  not 
to  your  taste." 

"  Monsieur,  do  not  say  that." 

"  0,  it  is  no  sacrilege  not  to  like 
me.  Not  one  in  fifty  does.  I  for- 
give you,  haw !  haw  !  we  can't  all 
have  good  taste." 

"  But  I  do  like  vou.  Monsieur  Ray- 
nal." 

"  Then  why  won't  you  let  me  have 
your  sister  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  quite  decided  that  you 
shall  not  have  her." 

"All  the  better." 

"  I  dare  say  you  think  me  very  un- 
kind, very  selfish,  and  you  are  not  the 
only  one  who  calls  me  that." 

"  Seljis/i  ?  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean." 

"  Yes,  you  do.  Oii  !  you  don't 
think  what  I  must  feel,  I  who  love 
my  sister  as  no  man  can  ever  love 
her,  I  whose  heart  has  been  one  flesh 

is  easy  to  see  and  say  one  side  of  things 
three-sided,  but  the  hardest  thing  on  earth  to 
balance  alternatives,  —  eh  ? 


WHITK   LIES. 


141 


and  one  soul  with  hers  all  my  life. 
A  stranger  comes  and  takes  her  away 
from  me  as  if  she  was  nothing." 

"  It  is  too  bad  !  "  cried  Ilaynal, 
good-naturedly  ;  "  as  you  say,  I  am  a 
comparative  stranger :  still  it  is  not 
as  if  I  was  going  to  part  you  two." 

"  Not  separate  us  ?  —  when  you 
take  her  to  Egypt." 

"  I  shall  not  take  her  to  Egypt." 

"  Yes,  you  will,  —  you  know  you 
will." 

"  What !  do  you  think  I  am  such 
a  brute  as  to  take  that  delicate  crea- 
ture out  fighting  with  me  1  no,  it 
won't  be  fighting :  you  mark  my 
words,  it  will  be  hunting  Egyptians 
and  Arabs  :  —  why,  the  hot  sand 
would  clioke  her,  to  begin." 

"  0,  my  good  Monsieur  Raynal ! 
what,  then,  you  do  not  tear  her' from 
us?" 

"No,  you  don't  take  my  manoeu- 
vre. I  have  no  family.  I  try  for  a 
wife  that  will  throw  me  in  a  motlier 
and  sister.  You  will  live  altogether 
the  same  as  before,  of  course  ;  only 
you  must  let  me  make  one  of  you 
when  I  am  at  home.  And  how  often 
will  that  be  ?  Besides,  I  am  as  likely 
to  be  knocked  on  the  head  in  Egypt 
as  not;  you  are  worrying  yourself  for 
nothing,  little  lady." 

Raynal  uttered  the  last  topic  of 
consolation  in  a  broad,  hearty,  hilari- 
ous tone,  like  a  trombone  tlioroughly 
impregnated  wiih  cheerful  views  of 
fate. 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  "  cried  Laure  ; 
"  and  it  will,  for  I  shall  pray  for  you 
now.     Ah!  monsieur,  forgive  me  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  forgive  you,  —  stop  !  what 
am  I  forgiving  you  for  1  " 

"  What  for  1  why,  for  not  seeing 
all  your  worth  :  of  course  I  knew  you 
were  an  angel,  but  I  had  no  idea  you 
were  a  duck.  You  are  just  the  man 
for  my  sister.  She  likes  to  obey  :  you 
are  all  for  commanding.  So  you  "see. 
Then  she  never  thinks  of  herself :  any 
other  man  but  you  would  impose  on 
her  good-nature;  but  you  are  too 
generous  to  do  that.  So  you  see. 
Then  she  esteems  you  so  highly." 


"  Brief,  you  are  her  plenipotentiary, 

and  you  s;iy  '  yes.'  " 

"  Wliy  should  I  say  '  no  '  ?  you  will 
make  one  another  happy  some  day  : 
you  are  both  so  good.  Any  other 
man  but  you  would  tear  her  from  me ; 
but  you  are  too  just,  too  kind.  Heav- 
en will  reward  you.  No !  I  will.  I 
will  give  you  Josephine  :  ah,  my  dear 
brother-in-law,  I  give  you  there  the 
most  precious  thing  I  have  in  the 
world." 

"  Thank  you,  then.  So  that  is 
settled.  Hum  !  no,  it  is  not  quite  :  I 
forgot:  I  have  something  for  you  to 
read  :  an  anonymous  letter.  I  got  it 
this  morning  :  it  says  your  sister  has 
a  lover,  —  read  it." 

The  letter  ran  to  this  tune  :  a  friend 
who  had  observed  the  commandant's 
frequent  visits  at  lieiiurepairc  wrote 
to  warn  him  against  traps.  Both  the 
young  ladies  of  Beaurepaire  were 
doubtless  at  the  new  proprietor's  ser- 
vice to  pick  and  choose  from.  But 
for  all  that  each  of  them  had  a  lover, 
and,  though  these  lovers  had  their 
orders  to  keep  out  of  the  way  till 
monsieur  should  be  hooked,  he  might 
be  sure  that,  if  he  married  either,  the 
man  of  her  heart  would  come  on  the 
scene  soon  after,  perhaps  be  present 
at  the  wedding. 

In  short,  it  was  one  of  those  poisoned 
arrows  a  coarse  vindictive  coward  can 
shoot. 

It  was  the  first  anonymous  letter 
Laure  had  ever  seen.  It'almost  drove 
her  mad  on  the  spot.  Raynal  was 
sorry  he  had  let  her  see  it. 

She  turned  red  and  white  by  turns, 
and  gasped  for  breath. 

"  O,  why  am  I  not  a  man  ?  —  why 
don't  I  wear  a  sword.  I  would  pass 
it  through  this  caitiff's  heart.  The 
cowardly  slave  !  —  the  fiend  !  for  wlio 
but  a  fiend  could  slander  an  angel 
like  my  Josephine  ?  Hooked  ?  O, 
she  will  never  marry  you  if  she  sees 
this." 

"  Then  don't  let  her  see  it,  and 
don't  take  it  to  heart  like  that.  I 
don't  trust  to  the  word  of  a  thief,  who 
owns  that  liis  storv  is  a  ihiu-x  he  dare 


142 


WHITE  LIES. 


not  sign  his  name  to  ;  at  all  events  I 
shall  not  put  his  word  against  yours. 
But  this  is  why  I  put  the  question  to 
you.  I  am  an  honest  man,  but  not  a 
compluitiant  one.  I  should  not  be  an 
easy-going  husband  like  some  I  see 
about.  I  'd  have  no  wasps  round  my 
honey.  If  my  wife  took  a  lover  I 
would  not  lecture  the  woman, —  what 
is  the  use  ?  I  'd  kill  the  man  then 
and  there ;  I  'd  kill  him  in  doors  or 
out ;  I  'd  kill  him  as  I  would  kill  a 
snake.  If  she  took  another  I  'd  send 
him  after  the  first,  and  so  on  till  one 
killed  me." 

"  And  serve  the  wretches  right." 

"  Yes,  but,  for  my  own  sake,  I 
don't  choose  to  marry  a  woman  that 
loves  any  other  man.  So  tell  me, 
come." 

"  Monsieur,  the  letter  is  a  wicked 
slander.  I  have  no  lover.  I  have  a 
young  fool  that  comes  and  teases  me  : 
but  it  is  no  secret.  He  is  away,  but 
why  ?  He  is  on  a  sick-bed,  poor  little 
fellow." 

"  But  your  sister  1  " 

"  My  sister  ?  ask  my  mother  wheth- 
er she  has  a  lover." 

"What  for?  I  ask  you.  She 
would  not  have  a  lover  unknown  to 
you." 

"  I  defy  her.  Well,  monsieur,  I 
have  not  seen  her  speak  three  words 
to  any  young  man  except  Monsieur 
Riviere  this  three  years  past." 

"  That  is  enough  "  ;  and  he  tore  the 
letter  quietly  to  atoms. 

Then  Laurc  saw  she  could  afford  a 
little  more  candor  :  — 

"  Understand  me,  I  can't  speak  of 
what  happened  when  I  was  a  child. 
But  if  ever  she  had  a  girlish  attach- 
ment, he  has  not  followed  it  up,  or 
surely  I  should  have  seen  something 
of  him  all  these  years." 

"  Parbleu  —  O,  as  for  flirtations,  let 
them  pass :  a  lovely  girl  does  not 
gi-ow  up  without  one  or  two  whis- 
pering some  nonsense  into  her  car. 
Wiiy,  I  myself  should  have  flirted 
often,  but  I  never  had  the  time.  Bo- 
naparte gives  you  time  to  eat  and  drink, 
bat  not  to  sleep  or  flirt,  and   that  re- 


minds me  I  have  fifty  miles  to  ride;  so 
good  by,  sister-in-law,  eh  ?  " 
"Adieu,  brother-in-law." 
Left  alone,  Laure  had  some  misgiv- 
ings. She  had  equivocated  with  one 
whose  upright,  candid  nature  ought  to 
have  protected  him :  but  an  enemy 
had  accused  Josephine;  and  it  came 
so  natural  to  shield  her.  "  Did  he 
really  think  I  would  expose  my  own  sis- 
ter 7 "  said  she  to  herself,  angrily.  Was 
not  this  anger  secret  self-discontent  ? 

Laure  was  coming  round  a  little  to 
the  match  before  this  brisk  interview 
with  Raynal.  His  promise  not  to  take 
Josephine  to  Egypt  turned  the  scale. 
The  anonymous  letter,  too,  fired  her 
with  anger  and  resistance.  "  So  we 
have  an  enemy  who  tries  to  hinder 
him  from  marrying  her ! ! !  " 

Irresolution   was   no  part  of    this 
young  lady's  character.     She  did  not 
decide  blindly  in  so  important  a  mat- 
ter ;  but,  her  decision  once  made,  she 
banished  objections  and  misgivings : 
the  time  for  them  was  gone  by,  they 
had  had  their  hearing. 
She  went  to  Josephine. 
"  Well,  love,"  said  Josephine,  "have 
you  dismissed  him  1 " 
"  No." 

Josephine  smiled  feebly.  "It  is 
easy  to  say,  '  say  no  ' :  but  it  is  not  so 
easy  to  say  '  no,'  especially  when  you 
feel  you  ought  to  say  '  yes,'  and  have 
no  wish  either  way  except  to  give 
pleasure  to  others." 

"  But  I  am  not  such  skim-milk,"  re- 
plied Laure :  "  I  have  always  a  strong 
wish  where  you  are  concerned,  and 
your  happiness.  I  hesitated  whilst  I 
was  in  doubt :  but  I  doubt  no  longer : 
I  have  had  a  long  talk  with  him  :  he 
has  shown  me  his  whole  heart :  he  is 
the  best,  the  noblest  of  creatures  :  he 
has  no  littleness  or  meanness.  Also 
he  is  a  thorough  man  ;  I  know  that  by 
his  being  the  very  opposite  of  a  wo- 
man in  his  ways  :  now  you  are  a  thor- 
ough woman,  and  you  will  suit  one 
another  to  a  T.  I  have  decided,  my 
Josephine  :  no  more  doubts,  love  :  no 
more  tears  :  no  more  disputes :  we  are 
all  of  one  mind." 


whitp:  lies. 


143 


"  All  the  better." 

"  Embrace  mc,  I  love  you  !  O,  nev- 
er sister  loved  sister  as  I  you  :  I  iiave 
secured  your  happiness." 

"  Never  mind  my  happiness,  tiiink 
of  our  mother,  think  of —  " 

"  Your  happiness  is  before  all.  It 
will  come  !  not  all  in  a  day  perhaps, 
but  it  will  come.  So  then  in  one  lit- 
tle fortnight  my  sister  —  ah!  —  you 
marry  Monsieur  Raynal." 

"  You  have  settled  it  1 " 

"  Yes." 

"  What,  —  finally  1 " 

"  Yes." 

"  But  dre  you  sure  I  can  make  him 
as  happy  as  he  deserves  ?  " 

"Positive." 

"I  think  so  to;  still  —  " 

"  It  is  settled,  dear,"  said  Laurc, 
soothingly. 

"O  the  comfort  of  that, — you  re- 
lieve me  of  a  weight." 

"  It  is  settled,  love,  and  by  me." 

"  Then  I  am  at  peace.  You  are 
my  best  friend.  I  shall  have  duties  ; 
I  shall  do  some  good  in  the  world. 
They  were  all  for  it  but  you  be- 
fore." 

"  And  now  I  am  stronger  for  it 
than  any  one.     It  is  settled." 

"  Bless  you,  dear  Laure, — you  have 
saved  your  sister.     O    Camille, — 

CaMILLE  ! WHY  HAVE  YOU  ABAN- 
DONED ME  !  " 

She  fell  to  sobbing  terribly.  Laure 
wept  on  her  neck,  but  said  nothing. 
She  too  was  a  woman,  and  felt  those 
despairing  words  were  the  woman's 
consent  to  marry  him  she  esteemed 
but  did  not  love.  It  Avas  the  last 
despairing  cry  of  love  giving  up  a 
hopeless  struggle. 

And  in  fact  these  were  the  last 
words  that  passed  between  the  sis- 
ters. 

It  was  settled. 

And  now  Jacintha  came  to  tell 
them  it  was  close  upon  dinner- 
time. 

Thuy  hastened  to  dry  their  tears 
and  wash  their  red  eyes,  for  fear  their 
mother  should  see  what  they  had  been 
ut,  and  worry  herself. 


"  Well,  mademoiselle,  these  two  con- 
sent ;  but  what  do  you  say  ?  for,  after 
all,  it  is  you  I  am  courting,  and  not 
them.  Have  you  the  courage  to  ven- 
ture on  a  rough  soldier  like  me  ?  " 

"  Speak,  Josephine,"  said  the  bar- 
oness. 

For  this  delicate  question  was  put 
plump  before  the  three  ladies. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Josephine, timid- 
ly, "I  will  be  as  frank,  as  straight- 
forward, as  you  are.  I  thank  you  for 
the  honor  you  do  me." 

Raynal  looked  perplexed. 

"  Mother-in-law  ?  does  that  mean 
yes  or  no  1  " 

"  I  did  not  hear  the  word  '  no,'  did 
youl  " 

"Not  downright  'no'!" 

"  Then  she  means  '  yes.' " 

"  Then  I  am  very  much  obliged  to 
her." 

"  You  have  little  reason  to  be, 
monsieur." 

"  Yes,  he  has  !  "  cried  the  baroness, 
"  and  so  have  you,  my  beloved  child  ; 
my  brave  soldier,  I  would  have  se- 
lected you  for  a  son  out  of  all  the 
nation." 

"And  I  never  saw  an  old  lady,  but 
one,  that  suited  me  for  a  mother  like 
you." 

"  You  have  but  one  fault :  you  nev- 
er can  stay  quietly  and  chat." 

"That 'is  Bonaparte's  fiiult.  I 
have  got  to  go  to  him  at  Paris  to- 
morrow." 

"  So  soon "?  but  you  stay  with  us 
this  evening  :  I  insist  on  it.  I  shall 
be  hurt  else." 

"All  the  evening.  And  just  now 
I  want  to  say  sometliing  to  you  tliat 
I  don't  wish  those  two  to  hear, 
mother !  " 

"  That  is  a  hint,  my  young  ladies," 
said  the  baroness. 

"And  a  pretty  broad  one,"  said 
Laurc,  with  a  toss. 

The  details  of  this  conversation  be- 
tween the  baroness  and  Raynal  did 
not  transpire  :  but  it  left  the  baroness 
very  happy,  and  at  the  same  time 
much  aifccted. 

"  He  is  an  angel,  my  dears,"  cried 


144 


WHITE   LIES. 


she  :  "  he  thinks  of  everytliing.  I 
shall  love  all  brusque  people ;  and 
once  I  held  them  in  such  aversion. 
You  are  a  happy  girl,  Josephine,  and 
I  am  a  happy  old  woman." 

Josephine  briglitened  up  at  the  old 
lady's  joy,  then  she  turned  quickly  to 
examine  Laure  ;  Laure's  face  beamed 
with  unaffected  happiness. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Josephine,  compla- 
cently. She  added,  "  And  what  a  com- 
fort to  be  all  of  one  mind." 

The  wedding  was  fixed  for  that  day 
fortnight. 

The  next  morning  wardrobes  were 
ransacked.  The  silk,  muslin,  and  lace 
of  their  prosperous  days  were  looked 
out :  grave  discussions  were  held  over 
each  work  of  art. 

Laure  was  active,  busy,  fussy. 

The  baroness  threw  in  the  weight 
of  her  judgment  and  experience. 

Josephine  smiled  whenever  either 
Laure  or  the  baroness  looked  at  all 
fixedly  at  her. 

So  glided  the  peaceful  days.  So 
Josephine  drifted  towards  the  iiaven 
of  wedlock. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

At  Bayonne,  a  garrison  town  on 
the  south  frontier  of  France,  two  sen- 
tinels walked  lethargically,  crossing 
and  recrossing  before  the  governor's 
house.  Suddenly  their  official  drow- 
siness burst  into  energy  ;  they  lowered 
their  pieces  and  crossed  them  with  a 
clash  before  the  gateway.  A  pale, 
grisly  man,  in  rusty,  defaced,  dirty, 
and  torn  regimentals,  was  walking 
into  the  court-yard  really  as  if  it  be- 
longed to  him.  The  battered  man 
did  not  start  back. 

He  stopped  and  looked  down  with 
a  smile  at  the  steel  barrier  the  soldiers 
had  improvised  for  him,  then  di-ew 
himself  a  little  up,  carried  his  hand 
carelessly  to  his  cap,  which  was  near- 
ly in  two,  and  gave  the  name  of  an 
officer  in  the  French  army. 

If  you  or  I,  dressed  like  a  beggar, 
who  years  ago  had  stolen  regimentals 


and  worn  them  down  to  civil  gar- 
ments, had  addressed  these  soldiers 
with  these  very  same  words,  the  bay- 
onets would  have  kissed  closer,  or 
perhaps  the  points  been  turned  against 
our  sacred  but  rusty  person ;  but 
there  is  a  freemasonry  of  the  sword  : 
the  light,  imperious  hand  that  touched 
that  battered  cap,  and  the  quiet,  clear 
tone  of  command,  told. 

The  soldiers  slowly  recovered  their 
pieces,  but  still  looked  uneasy  and 
doubtful  in  tlieir  minds.  The  battered 
one  saw  this,  and  gave  a  sort  of  lofty 
smile ;  he  turned  up  his  cuffs  and 
showed  his  wrists,  and  drew  himself 
still  higher. 

The  sentinels  shouldered  their 
pieces  sharp,  then  dropped  them  simul- 
taneously with  a  clatter  and  ring  upon 
the  pavement. 

"  Pass,  captain." 

The  battered,  rusty  figure  rang  the 
governor's  bell.  A  servant  came  and 
eyed  him  with  horror  and  contempt. 
He  gave  his  name,  and  begged  to  see 
the  governor. 

The  servant  left  him  in  the  hall, 
and  went  up  stairs  to  tell  his  master. 
At  the  name  the  governor  reflected, 
then  frowned,  then  bade  his  servant 
reach  him  down  a  certain  book.  He 
inspected  it.  "  I  thought  so  :  any 
one  with  him  ?  " 

"  No,  monsieur  the  governor." 

"Load  my  pistols,  put  them  on  the 
table,  put  that  book  back,  show  him  in, 
and  then  order  a  guard  to  the  door." 

The  governor  was  a  stern  veteran, 
with  a  powerful  brow,  a  shaggy  eye- 
brow, and  a  piercing  eye.  He  never 
rose,  but  leaned  his  chin  on  his  hand, 
and  his  elbow  on  a  table  that  stood 
between  them,  and  eyed  the  new- 
comer very  fixedly  and  strang-ely. 

"  We  did  not  expect  to  see  you  on 
this  side  the  Pyrenees." 

"  Nor  I  myself,  governor." 

"  What  do  you  come  to  me  for  ?  " 

"  A  welcome,  a  suit  of  regimentals, 
and  money  to  take  me  to  Paris." 

"  And  suppose,  instead  of  that,  I 
turn  out  a  corporal's  guard,  and  bid 
them  shoot  vou  in  the  court-vard  1  " 


WHITE   LIES. 


145 


"It  would  be  the  drollest  thing 
you  ever  did,  all  things  considered," 
said  the  other,  coolly,  but  he  looked 
a  little  surprised. 

The  governor  went  for  the  book  he 
had  lately  consulted,  found  the  page, 
handed  it  to  the  rusty  officer,  and 
watched  him  keenly.  The  blood 
rushed  all  over  his  face,  and  his  lip 
trembled  ;  but  his  eye  dwelt  stern  yet 
sorrowful  on  the  governor. 

"  I  have  read  your  book  :  now  read 
mine."  lie  drew  off  his  coat,  and 
showed  his  wrists  and  arms,  blue  and 
whaled.  "  Can  you  read  that,  mon- 
sieur?"' 

"  No  ! " 

"  All  the  better  for  you :  Spanish 
fetters,  general."  He  showed  a  white 
scar  on  his  slioulder.  "  Can  you 
read  that,  sir  ?  " 

"  Humph  1  " 

"This  is  what  I  cut  out  of  it,"  and 
he  handed  the  governor  a  little  round 
stone  as  big  and  almost  as  regular  as 
a  musket-ball. 

"  Humph  !  That  could  hardly  have 
been  fired  from  a  French  musket." 

"  Can  you  read  this  ?  "  and  he 
showed  him  a  long  cicatri.K  on  his 
other  arm. 

"  Knife,  I  think,"  said  the  governor. 

"You  are  right,  monsieur  :  Spanish 
knife  !  Can  you  read  this  1  "  and 
opening  his  bosom  he  showed  a  raw 
and  bloody  wound  on  his  breast. 

"  0,  the  devil !  "  cried  the  general. 

The  wounded  man  put  his  rusty 
coat  on  again,  and  stood  erect  and 
haughty  and  silent. 

The  general  eyed  him,  and  saw  his 
great  spirit  shining  through  this  man. 
The  more  he  looked  the  less  could 
the  scarecrow  veil  the  hero  from  his 
practised  eye. 

"  There  has  been  some  mistake,  or 
else  I  dote,  and  can't  tell  a  soldier 
from  a  —  " 

"  Don't  say  the  word,  old  man,  or 
your  heart  will  bleed." 

"  Humph  !      I   must  go   into   this 
matter  at  once.     Be  seated,  captain, 
if  you  please,  and  tell  me  what  have 
you  been  doing  all  these  years  1  " 
7 


"  Suffering." 

"What,  all  the  time?" 

"  Without  intermission  !  " 

"  But  what  ?  suffering  what  1  " 

"  Cold,  hunger,  darkness,  wounds, 

solitude,  sickness,  despair,  prison,  all 

that  man  can  suffer." 

"  Impossible  ;    a    man   would    be 

dead  at  that  rate  before  this." 

"  I  should  have  died  a  dozen  times, 

but  for  one  thing." 

"  Ay  !  what  was  that  ?  " 

"  I  had  promised  to  live." 

There  was  a  pause.     Then  the  old 

man  said  calmly,  "  To  the  facts,  young 

man  :  I  listen." 

An  hour  had  scarce  elapsed  since 
the  rusty  figure  was  stopped  by  the 
sentinels  at  the  gate,  when  two  glitter- 
ing officers  passed  out  under  the  same 
archway,  followed  by  a  servant  carry- 
ing a  "furred  cloak.  The  sentinels 
presented  arms.  The  elder  of  these  of- 
ficers was  the  governor  :  the  younger 
was  the  late  scarecrow,  in  a  bran-new 
uniform  belonging  to  the  governor's 
son.  He  shone  out  now  in  his  true 
light :  the  beau  ideal  of  a  patrician 
soldier ;  one  would  have  said  he  had 
been  born  with  a  sword  by  his  side 
and  drilled  by  Nature,  so  straight  and 
smart  yet  easy  he  was  in  every  move- 
ment. He  was  like  a  falcon,  eye  and 
all,  only,  as  it  were,  down  at  the  bottom 
of  the  hawk  eye  seemed  to  lie  a  dove's 
eye.  That  wonderful  compound  and 
varying  eye  seemed  to  say  :  I  can 
love,  I  can  fight  ,•  I  can  fight,  I  can 
love,  as  few  of  you  can  do  either. 

The  old  man  was  trying  to  per- 
suade him  to  stay  at  Bayonne,  until 
his  wound  should  be  cured. 

"  No,  general,  I  have  other  wounds 
to  cure  of  longer  standing  than  this 
one." 

"Paris  is  a  long  journey  for  a 
wounded  man." 

"  Say  a  scratched  man,  general." 

"  Well,  promise  me  to  stay  a  month 
at  Paris  ?  " 

"  General,  I  shall  stay  an  hour  in 
Paris." 

"  An  hour  in  Paris !  "      Well,  at 


146 


WHITE  LIES. 


least  call  at  the  "War  Office  and  pre- 
sent this  letter." 

"  I  will." 

That  same  afternoon,  wrapped  in 
the  governor's  furred  cloak,  the  young 
officer  lay  at  his  full  length  in  the 
coupe  of  the  diligence,  the  whole  of 
which  the  governor  had  peremptorily 
demanded  for  him,  and  rolled  day  and 
night  towards  Paris. 

He  reached  it  worn  with  fatigue 
and  fevered  by  his  wound,  but  his 
spirit  as  indomitable  as  ever.  He 
went  to  the  War  Office  with  the  gov- 
ernor's letter.  It  seemed  to  create 
some  little  sensation  :  one  functionary 
came  and  said  a  polite  word  to  him, 
then  another.  At  last,  to  his  infinite 
surprise,  the  minister  himself  sent 
down  word  he  wished  to  see  him  ;  the 
minister  put  several  questions  to  him, 
and  seemed  interested  in  him  and 
touched  by  his  relation. 

"  I  think,  captain,  I  shall  have  to 
send  to  you  :  where  do  you  stay  in 
Paris  ?  " 

"  Nowhere,  monsieur,  —  I  leave  Par- 
is as  soon  as  I  can  tind  an  easy-going 
horse." 

"  But  General  Bcrtaux  tells  mo  you 
are  wounded." 

"A  little." 

"  Pardon  me,  captain,  but  is  this 
prudent?  is  it  just  to  yourself  and 
your  friends  ?  " 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  T  owe  it  to  tliose 
who  perhaps  think  me  dead." 

"  You  can  write  to  them." 

"  I  grudge  so  great,  so  sacred  a  joy 
to  a  letter.  No  !  after  all  I  have  suf- 
fered I  claim  to  be  the  one  to  tell  her 
I  have  kept  my  word  :  I  promised  to 
live,  and  I  live." 

"  Her  ?  I  say  no  more,  captain,  — 
only  tell  me  what  road  you  take." 

"  The  road  to  Brittany." 

As  the  young  officer  was  walking 
his  horse  by  the  roadside  about  a 
league  and  a  half  from  Paris,  he  heard 
a  clatter  behind  him,  and  up  galloped 
an  aide-de-camp,  and  drew  up  along- 
side, bringing  his  horse  nearly  on  his 
haunches. 


He  handed  him  a  largo  packet 
sealed  with  tlic  arms  of  France.  The 
other  tore  it  open  and  there  was  his 
brevet  as  colonel.  His  cheek  flushed, 
and  his  eye  glitter<?d  with  joy.  The 
aide-de-camp  next  gave  him  a  par- 
cel. 

"  Your  epaulets,  colonel !  "We  hear 
you  arc  going  into  the  wilds  where 
epaulets  don't  grow.  You  are  to  join 
the  army  of  the  Ithine  as  soon  as 
your  wound  is  well." 

"  Wherever  my  country  calls  me." 

"  Your  address,  then,  colonel,  that 
we  may  know  where  to  put  our  finger 
on  a  hero  when  we  want  one." 

"  I  am  going  to  Beaurepaire." 

"  Ah  !  Beaurepaire  1  1  never  heard 
of  it." 

"  You  never  heard  of  Beaurepaire  ? 
Beaurepaire  is  in  Brittany,  twenty- 
five  leagues  from  Paris,  twenty-three 
leagues  and  a  half  from  here." 

"  Good  !  Health  and  honor  to  you, 
colonel." 

"  The  same  to  you,  monsieur,  —  or 
a  soldier's  death." 

The  new  colonel  read  the  pre- 
cious document  across  his  horse's 
mane,  and  then  he  was  going  to  put 
one  of  the  epaulets  on  his  right 
shoulder,  bare  at  present:  but  he  re- 
flected. 

"  No  ;  I  will  not  crown  myself.  She 
shall  make  me  a  colonel  with  her  own 
dear  hand.  I  will  put  them  in  my 
pocket.  I  will  not  even  look  at  them 
till  she  has  seen  them  ;  I  have  no 
right.  0  how  happy  I  am,  not  only 
to  come  back  to  her  alive,  but  to  come 
back  to  her  honored." 

His  wound  smarted,  his  limbs 
ached,  but  no  pain  past  or  present 
could  lay  hold  of  his  mind.  In  his 
great  joy  he  remembered  past  suf- 
fering and  felt  present  pain  —  and 
smiled. 

Only  every  now  and  then  he  pined 
for  wings. 

0  the  weai-y  road  ! 

He  was  walking  his  horse  quietly, 
drooping  a  little  over  his  saddle,  when 
another  officer  well  mounted  came 
after  him  and  passed  him  at  a  hand 


WHITE   LIES. 


147 


pallop  with  one  hasty  glance  at  his 
uniform,  and  went  tearing  on  lil^e  one 
riding  for  his  life. 

"Don't  I  know  that  face?"  said 
he. 

He  cndgelled  his  nicmorj^,  and  at 
last  lie  remembered  it  was  the  face  of 
an  old  comrade.  They  had  been  lieu- 
tenants together. 

"  It  ivas  Kaynal,"  said  he,  "  only 
bronzed  by  service  in  some  hot  coun- 
try. No  wonder  he  did  not  know  me. 
I  must  be  more  changed  still.  I  wisli 
I  hud  hailed  the  fellow.  Perhaps  I 
shall  fall  in  with  him  again  at  the 
next  town." 

He  touched  his  horse  with  the  spur, 
and  cantered  gently  on,  for  trotting 
shook  him  more  than  he  could  bear. 
Even  when  he  cantered  he  had  to 
press  his  hand  against  his  bosom, 
and  often  with  the  motion  a  bitterer 
pang  than  usual  came  and  forced  the 
water  from  his  eyes ;  and  then  he 
smiled. 

His  great  love  and  his  high  courage 
made  this  reply  to  the  body's  idle  an- 
guish. And  still  his  eyes  looked 
straight  forward  as  at  some  object  in 
the  distant  horizon,  while  he  came 
gently  on,  his  hand  pressed  to  his 
bosom,  his  head  drooping  now  and 
then,  smiling  patiently  upon  the  road 
to  Bcaurepaire. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

At  Beaurepaire  they  were  making 
and  altering  wedding  dresses.  Laure 
was  excited,  and  even  Josephine  took 
a  calm  interest.  Dress  never  goes  for 
nothing  with  her  sex.  The  chairs 
and  tables  were  covered  with  dresses, 
and  the  floor  was  littered. 

"  I  wish  you  would  think  more  of 
what  you  are  to  wear." 

'■  Of  course  you  do,"  said  Laure  ; 
"  but  that  is  selfish  of  you.  You  al- 
ways want  to  have  your  own  way, 
and  your  way  is  to  be  thinking  of 
everybody  before  Josepiiine ;  but 
you  shall   not   have   your  own   way 


whilst  I  am  here,  because  I  am  the 
mistress." 

"  Nobody  disputes  that,  love!  " 

"  All  the  better  for  them,  dear. 
Now,  dear,  you  really  must  work 
harder.  It  only  wants  five  days  to 
the  wedding,  and  see  what  oceans  we 
have  to  do  !  " 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon :  the  baroness  had  joined  her 
daughters,  and  was  presiding  over 
the  rites  of  vanity,  and  telling  them 
what  she  wore  at  her  wedding,  under 
Louis  XV.,  with  strict  accuracy,  and 
what  we  men  should  consider  a  won- 
derful effort  of  memory,  when  the 
Commandant  Eaynal  came  in  like  a 
cannon-ball,  without  any  warning, 
and  stood  among  tliem  in  a  stiff  mili- 
tary attitude.  lixclamaiions  from  all 
the  party,  and  then  a  kind  greeting, 
especially  from  the  baroness. 

"  We  have  been  so  dull  without 
you,  Jean." 

"And  I  have  missed  you  once  or 
twice,  mother-in-law,  I  can  tell  you. 
AVell,  motlier-inlaw,  I  am  afraid  I 
shall  vex  you,  but  you  must  consider 
we  live  in  a  busy  time.  To-morrow 
I  start  for  Egypt  I  " 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Laure. 

"  To-morrow  !  "  cried  the  baron- 
ess. 

Josephine  put  down  her  work 
quietly. 

"  Yes,  it  is  all  altered.  Bonaparte 
leaves  Paris  the  day  after  to-morrow 
at  seven  in  the  morning,  and  I  go 
with  him.  I  rode  back  here  as  fast 
as  I  could  to  spend  what  little  time  is 
left  with  you." 

The  ladies'  eyes  all  telcgrajihed  one 
another  in  turn. 

"  My  horse  is  a  good  one.  If  I 
start  to-morrow  at  noon  I  shall  be  at 
Paris  by  five  in  the  morning,  —  must 
be  with  Bonaparte  at  half  past 
five." 

The  baroness  sighed  deeply,  and 
the  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  Just  as  we  were  all  beginning  to 
know  and  love  you." 

"  Oil  !  you  must  not  be  down- 
hearted, old    Indv.      Whv,   I   am    as 


148 


WHITE  LIES. 


likely  to  come  back  from  Egypt  as 
not.  It  is  an  even  cliance,  to  say  the 
least." 

This  piece  of  consolation  complet- 
ed the  baroness's  unhappiness.  8hc 
really  had  conceived  a  great  affection 
for  llaynal,  and  her  heart  had  been 
set  on  the  wedding. 

These  her  motives  were  mixed  ; 
and  so,  by  the  by,  are  yours  and 
mine,  in  nearly  all  we  do,  —  good, 
bad,  or  indifferent. 

"  Take  away  all  that  finery,  girls," 
said  she,  bitterly,  "  we  shall  not  want 
it  for  years.  Ah  !  my  friend,  I  shall 
not  be  alive  when  you  conic  home 
from  Egypt.  I  shall  never  have  a 
son ! " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Ray- 
nal,  a  little  rouglily.  "  It  will  be 
your  own  fault  if  you  don't  have  a 
son  ;  it  shall  not  be  mine." 

"  I  should  rather  ask,  what  do  you 
mean  ?  You  will  be  my  friend  and 
the  betrothed  of  my  daughter.  But 
consider  ;  but  for  this  contretemps  you 
really  would  have  belonged  to  me  in 
a  few  days'  time.  I  should  have  had 
the  right  to  put  my  finger  on  you  and 
say,  '  This  is  my  son.'  Alas !  that 
name  had  become  dear  to  me.  I 
never  had  a  son,  —  only  daughters,  — 
the  best  any  woman  ever  had  ;  but 
one  is  not  complete  without  a  son, 
and  I  shall  never  live  to  have  one." 

llaynal  looked  puzzled.  The  young 
ladies  were  putting  away  the  wedding 
things. 

"I  hate  General  Bonaparte,"  said 
Laure,  viciously. 

"  Hate  my  general  1  "  groaned 
Raynal,  looking  down  with  a  sort  of 
superstitious  awe  and  wonder  at  the 
lovely  vixen.  "  Hate  the  best  soldier 
the  world  ever  saw  ?  " 

"  What  do  I  care  for  his  soldier- 
ship. He  has  put  off  our  wedding. 
For  how  many  years  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  No;  he  has  put  it  on." 

"  And  after  me  working  my  finger 
to  the  bone  —  put  it  on  —  what  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  the  wedding  was  to  be  in 
a  week,  and  now  it  is  to  be  tomorrow 


at  ten  o'clock  ;  that  is  putting  it  on,  I 

The  three  ladies  setup  their  throats 
together. 

"  To-morrow  ?  " 

"  To-morrow.  Why,  what  do  you 
suppose  I  left  Paris  for  yesterday  1 
left  my  duties  even." 

"  What,  monsieur  1  "  asked  Jose- 
phine, timidly,  "  did  you  ride  all  that 
way,  and  leave  your  duties,  merely  to 
marry  me  ? "  and  she  looked  a  little 
pleased. 

"  You  are  worth  a  great  deal  more 
trouble  thanthat,"said  liaynal, simply. 
"  Besides,  I  had  passed  my  word,  and 
I  always  keep  my  word." 

"  So  do  I,  monsieur," said  Josephine, 
a  little  proudly.  "  I  will  not  go  from 
it  now,  if  you  insist ;  but  I  confess 
to  you  that  such  a  proposal  staggers 
me;  so  sudden,  —  no  preliminaries, 
—  no  time  to  reflect ;  in  short,  there 
are  so  many  difheulties  that  I  must 
request  of  your  courtesy  to  recon- 
sider." 

"Difficulties,"  shouted  Raynal,  with 
merry  disdain  ;  "  there  are  none  unless 
you  sit  down  and  make  them  :  diffi- 
culties ■?  1  ha !  ha !  we  do  more  ditK- 
cult  things  than  this  every  day  of  our 
lives  :  we  passed  the  bridge  of  Areola 
in  thirteen  minutes  :  and  we  had  not 
the  consent  of  the  enemy  :  as  we  have 
now,  mademoiselle,  —  have  we  not  ?  " 

"  Monsieur,  it  seems  ungracious  in 
me  to  raise  objections,  when  you  have 
taken  so  much  trouble,  —  but  —  mam- 


ma 


1  I  " 


"Yes,  my  daughter  :  my  dear  friend, 
you  do  us  both  great  honor  by  this 
empressement :  but  I  see  no  possibility : 
there  is  an  etiquette  we  cannot  alto- 
gether defy  :  there  are  preliminaries 
before  a  daughter  of  the  Baron  de 
Beiiurepaire  —  " 

"  There  used  to  be  all  that,  ma- 
dame  !  "  laughed  Raynal,  putting  her 
down  good-humorcdly,  "  but  it  was 
in  the  days  when  armies  came  out 
and  touched  their  caps  to  one  another, 
and  went  back  into  winter  quarters. 
Then  the  struggle  was  who  could  go 
slowest :  now  the  fight  is  who  can  go 


WHITE  LTES. 


149 


fastest.  Time  and  Bonaparte  wait 
fur  nobody  :  and  ladies  and  other 
strong  places  arc  taken  by  storm,  not 
undermined  a  foot  a  month  as  under 
Noah  Quatorze  :  let  me  cut  this  short 
as  time  is  short :  mademoiselle,  you 
say  you  are  a  woman  of  your  word, 
nnd  that  if  I  insist  you  will  give  in  : 
well,  I  insist!" 

"  In  that  tase,  monsieur,  all  is  said  : 
I  shall  not  resist  you." 

"  It  would  be  no  use,"  cried  Laure, 
clapping  her  hands,  "  the  man  is  irre- 
sistible." 

"You  will  not  resist  1  that  is  all  I 
require  :  now  don't  worry  yourself : 
don't  fancy  difficulties  :  don't  trouble 
yourself.  I  undertake  everything  : 
you  will  not  have  to  lift  a  finger  ex- 
cept to  sign  the  marriage  contract. 
As  the  time  is  short  I  cut  it  into  ra- 
tions beforehand :  the  carriages  will 
be  here  at  nine  :  they  will  whisk  us 
down  to  the  mayor's  house  by  a  quar- 
ter to  ten  :  Picard  the  notary  meets 
us  there  with  the  marriage  contract 
to  save  time  :  the  contract  signed,  the 
mayor  will  do  the  marriage  at  quick 
step  out  of  respect  for  me  and  to  save 
time,  —  half  an  hour,  —  quarter  past 
ten  :  breakfast  all  in  the  same  house 
an  hour  and  a  quarter :  —  we  must  n't 
hurry  a  wedding  breakfast,  —  then 
ten  minutes  or  so  for  the  old  fogies  to 
waste  in  making  speeches  about  our 
virtues,  mademoiselle,  —  yours  and 
mine  ;  my  answer  ten  seconds,  —  my 
watch  will  come  out,  —  my  charger 
will  come  round,  —  I  rise  from  the 
table,  —  embrace  my  dear  old  mother, 
—  kiss  my  wife's  hand,  —  into  the  sad- 
dle, —  canter  to  Paris,  —  roll  to  Tou- 
lon, —  sail  to  Egypt.  But  I  shall 
leave  a  Madame  Raynal  and  a  moth- 
er behind  me :  they  will  both  send  me 
a  kind  word  now  and  then  ;  and  I 
will  write  letters  to  you  all  from  Egypt, 
and  when  I  come  home  my  wife  and 
I  will  make  acquaintance,  and  we  will 
all  be  happy  together :  and  if  I  am 
killed  out  there  don't  you  go  and  fret 
your  poor  little  hearts  about  it :  it  is  a 
soldier's  lot,  sooner  or  later.  Besides, 
you  will  find  I  have  taken  care  of 


you  :  my  poor  women,  Jean  Raynal's 
hand  won't  let  any  skulking  thief  come 
and  turn  you  out  of  your  quarters, 
even  though  Jean  Raynal  should  be 
dead.  I  have  got  to  meet  Picard  at 
Riviere's  on  that  very  business,  —  I 
am  off." 

He  was  gone  as  brusquely  as  he 
came. 

"  My  mother  !  my  sister  !  "  cried 
Josephine,  "  help  me  to  love  this 
man." 

"  You  need  no  help  !  "  cried  the 
baroness,  with  enthusiasm  ;  "  not  love 
him,  — we  should  all  be  monsters." 

Raynal  came  to  supper,  looking 
bright  and  cheerful. 

"  No  more  work  today.  I  have 
nothing  to  do  but  talk,  fancy  that." 

There  is  no  time  to  relate  a  tithe  of 
what  they  said  to  one  another ;  I  se- 
lect the  most  remarkable  thing. 

Josephine  de  Bcaurepaire,  who  had 
been  silent  and  thoughtful,  said  to 
Raynal,  in  a  voice  scarce  above  a 
whisper :  — 

"  Monsieur  ! " 

"  Mademoiselle !  "  rang  the  trom- 
bone. 

"  Am  I  not  to  go  to  Egypt  1 " 

"  No,"  was  the  brusque  reply. 

Josephine  drew  back,  like  a  sensitive 
plant.    But  she  returned  to  the  attack. 

"Nevertheless,  monsieur,  it  seems 
to  me  that  a  wife's  duty  is  to  be  by 
her  husband's  side,  —  to  look  after  his 
comfort, — to  console  him  when  oth- 
ers vex  him, —  to  soothe  him  when 
he  is  harassed." 

"  Her  first  duty  is  to  obey  him." 

"  Certainly." 

"  Well,  when  I  am  your  husband, 
I  shall  bid  you  stay  with  your  mother 
and  sister,  while  I  go  to  Egypt." 

"  As  you  please,  monsieur." 

"  If  I  come  back  from  Egypt,  and 
you  make  the  same  proposal  after  we 
have  lived  together  awhile,  I  shall 
jump  at  the  offer  :  but  this  time  stay 
where  you  are  :  look  at  your  sister,  a 
word  more  and  we  shall  raise  the  wa- 
ters. I  don't  think  any  the  worse  of 
von  for  making  the  offer,  mademoi- 
selle." 


150 


WHITE   LIES. 


The  next  day  at  sharp  nine  two  car- 
ria/^cs  were  at  the  door.  The  hidies 
kept  Raynal  waiting,  and  threvv  out 
all  his  serial  divisions  of  time  at  once. 
He  stamped  baclcwards  and  forwards, 
and  twisted  his  mustaches  and  swore. 
This  was  a  new  torture  to  him,  to  be 
made  unp-.inctual.  Jacintha  told  them 
be  was  in  a  rage,  and  that  made  them 
nervous  and  flurried,  and  their  fingers 
strayed  wildly  among  hooks  and  eyes, 
and  all  sorts  of  fastenings  ;  they  were 
not  ready  till  half  past  nine.  Con- 
scious they  deserved  a  scolding,  they 
sent  Josephine  down  first.  She 
dawned  upon  the  honest  soldier  so  ra- 
diant, so  dazzling  in  her  snowy  dress, 
with  her  coronet  of  pearls  (an  heir- 
loom), and  her  bridal  veil  parted,  and 
the  flush  of  conscious  beauty  on  her 
cheek,  that,  instead  of  scolding  her,  he 
actually  blurted  out :  — 

"  Well!  by  St.  Denis,  it  was  worth 
waiting  half  an  iiour  for." 

He  recovered  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
by  making  the  driver  gallop.  Occa- 
sional shrieks  issued  from  the  carriage 
that  held  the  baroness.  The  ancient 
lady  anticipated  annihilation.  She  had 
not  come  down  from  a  gallojiing  age. 

They  rattled  into  the  town,  drew 
up  at  the  mayor's  house,  were  received 
witii  great  ceremony  by  that  function- 
ary and  Picard,  and  entered  the 
house. 

When  their  carriages  rattled  into  the 
little  town  from  the  north  side,  the 
wounded  officer  had  already  entered 
it  from  the  south,  and  was  riding  at  a 
foot's  pace  along  the  principal  street. 
The  motion  of  his  horse  now  shook 
him  past  endurance.  He  dismounted 
at  an  inn  a  few  doors  from  the  mayor's 
bouse,  and  determined  to  do  the  rest  of 
the  short  journey  on  foot.  The  land- 
lord bustled  about  him  obsequiously. 
"  You  are  faint,  my  officer  :  you  liave 
travelled  too  far.  Let  me  order  you 
an  excellent  breakfast." 

"  No.  I  want  a  carriage  ;  have  vou 
one  V  ^  J 

"  My  officer,  I  have  two." 

"Order  one  out." 

"But,  my  officer,  unluckily  they  are 


both  engaged  for  the  day  and  bj  peo- 
ple of  distinction." 

"  Then  I  must  rest  here  half  an 
hour,  and  then  proceed  on  foot." 

The  landlord  showed  him  into  a 
room  :  it  had  a  large  window  looking 
on  the  street. 

"  Give  me  a  couple  of  chairs  to  lie 
down  on,  and  open  the  window  :  I 
feel  faint."  • 

"  It  is  that  monsieur  wants  his 
breakfast." 

"  Well.  An  omelet  and  a  bottle 
of  red  wine  :  but  open  the  window 
first." 

He  lay  near  the  window,  revived  by 
the  air,  and  watched  the  dear  little 
street  he  had  not  seen  for  years,  — 
watched  with  great  interest  to  see 
what  faces  he  could  recognize  and 
which  were  new. 

The  wounded  hero  felt  f.iint,  but 
happy,  very,  very  happy. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

The  marriage  contract  was  signed 
and  witnessed. 

''Now  to  the  church,"  cried  the 
baroness,  gayly. 

"To  the  church!  What  for?" 
asked  Raynal. 

"  Is  not  the  wedding  to  take  place 
this  morning  ?  " 

"  Purlieu." 

Picard  put  in  his  word  with  a  know- 
ing look. 

"I  understand,  madamo  the  baron- 
ess is  not  aware  of  the  change  in  the 
law.  People  are  not  married  in 
church  now-a-days." 

"  People  are  not  married  in  church  ?  " 
and  he  seemed  to  her  like  one  that 
mocketh. 

"  No.  The  state  marries  its  citi- 
zens now  ;  and  with  reason  ;  since 
marriage  is  a  civil  contract." 

"Marriage  a  civil  contract!"  re- 
peated the  baroness.  "  What,  is  it 
then  no  longer  one  of  the  holy  Sacra- 
ments? What  horrible  impiety  shall 
we  come  to  next  ?    Unhappy  France  1 


WHITE  LIES. 


151 


Josephine,  such  a  contract  would  never 
be  a  in:trriage  in  my  eyes :  and  what 
would  become  of  an  union  the  Church 
had  not  blessed  ?  "  I 

"  Madame,"     said     Picard,     "  the  j 
Church  can   bless    it  still ;  but  it  is 
only  the  mayor  here  that  can  do  it." 

"  My  daughter !  my  poor  daugh- 
ter!" 

All  this  time  Josephine  was  blush- 
ing scarlet,  and  looking  this  way  and 
that,  with  a  sort  of  instinctive  desire 
to  fly  and  hide,  no  matter  where,  for  a 
week  or  so. 

"  Haw  !  haw  !  haw  !  "  roared  Ray- 
nal :  "  here  is  a  pretty  mother.  Wants 
her  daughter  to  be  unlawfully  mar- 
ried in  a  church,  instead  of  lawfully  in 
a  house.     Give  me  the  will !  " 

Picard  handed  him  a  document. 

"  Look  here,  mother-in-law  ;  I  have 
left  Beaurepaire  to  my  lawful  wife." 

"  Otherwise,"  put  in  Picard,  "  in 
case  of  death,  it  would  pass  to  his 
heir-at-law." 

"  And  he  would  turn  you  all  out, 
and  that  does  not  suit  me.  Now  there 
stands  the  only  man  who  can  make 
mademoiselle  my  lawful  wife.  So 
quick  march,  monsieur  the  mayor, 
for  time  and  Bonaparte  wait  for  no 
man." 

"Stay  a  minute,  young  people," 
said  the  mayor.  "  We  should  soothe 
respectable  prejudices,  not  crush  them. 
Madame,  I  am  at  least  as  old  as  you  : 
and  have  seen  many  changes.  I  per- 
fectly understand  your  feelings." 

"  All,  monsieur  !  oh  !  " 

"  Calm  yourself,  dear  madame  :  the 
case  is  not  so  bad  as  you  think.  It  is 
perfectly  true  that  in  Republican 
France  the  civil  magistrate  alone  can 
bind  French  citizens  in  lawful  wed- 
lock. But  this  does  not  annihilate 
the  religious  ceremony.  You  can  ask 
the  Church's  blessing  on  my  work ; 
and  be  assured  you  are  not  the  only 
one  who  retains  that  natural  preju- 
dice. Out  of  every  ten  couples  that 
I  marry,  four  or  "five  go  to  church 
afterwards  and  perform  tiie  ancient 
ceremonies.  And  they  do  well.  For 
there  before  the  altar  the  priest  tells 


them  what  it  is  not  my  business  to 
dilate  upon,  the  grave  moral  and  re- 
ligious duties  they  have  undertaken 
along  with  this  civil  contract.  The 
State  binds,  but  the  Church  still 
blesses,  and  piously  assents  to 
that  —  " 

"  From  which  she  has  no  power  to 
dissent !  " 

"  Monsieur  Picard,  do  you  consider 
it  polite  to  interrupt  the  chief  magis- 
trate of  the  place  while  he  is  explain- 
ing the  law  to  the  citizen  ?  " 

Picard  shut  up  like  a  knife. 

"  Ah,  monsieur !  "  cried  the  baron- 
ess, "  you  are  a  worthy  man.  Mon- 
sieur, have  you  daughters  ?  " 

"  Ay,  madame  !  that  I  love  well.  I 
married  one  last  year." 

"  Did  you  marry  her  after  this  fash- 
ion ?  " 

"  I  married  her  myself,  as  I  will 
marry  yours  if  you  will  trust  me  with 
her." 

"  I  will,  monsieur :  you  are  a  father : 
you  are  a  worthy  man :  you  inspire 
me  with  confidence." 

"  And  after  I  have  made  them  one, 
there  is  nothing  to  prevent  them  ad- 
journing to  the  church." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  cried  Ray- 
nal,  "  there  are  two  things  to  pre- 
vent it :  things  that  wait  for  no  man  : 
time  and  Bonaparte.  Come,  sir, 
enough  chat :  to  work." 

The  mayor  assented.  He  invited 
Josephine  to  stand  before  him.  She 
trembled  and  wept  a  little  :  Laure 
clung  to  her  and  wept,  and  the  good 
mayor  married  the  parties  off'-hand. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  asked  the  baroness ; 
"  it  is  tei'ribly  soon  done." 

"  It  is  done  effectively,  madame," 
said  the  mayor,  witli  a  smile.  "Per- 
mit me  to  tell  you  that  liis  Holiness 
the  I'ope  cannot  undo  my  work." 

Picard  grinned  slyly,  and  whispered 
something  into  Raynal's  ear. 

"  Oh  !  indeed  !  "  said  Raynal,  aloud, 
and  carelessly.  "  Come,  Madame 
Raynal,  to  breakfast :  follow  us." 

They  paired  and  followed  the  bride 
and  bridegroom  into  the  breakfast- 
room. 


lo2 


WHITE   LIES. 


The  light  words  Picard  whispered 
were  just  five  in  number. 

Those  five  words  contained  seven 
syllables.  Now  if  the  mayor  had  not 
snubbed  Picard  just  before,  he  would 
have  uttered  those  jocose  but  true 
words  aloud.  There  was  no  particu- 
lar reason  why  he  should  not.  And 
if  he  had —  The  tln-eads  of  the  web  of 
life,  how  subtle  they  are  !  The  finest 
cotton  of  Manchester,  the  finer  meshes 
of  the  spider,  seem  three-inch  cables 
by  comparison  with  those  moral  gos- 
samers which  vulgar  eyes  cannot  see 
at  all,  the  "somethings,  nothings,"  on 
which  great  fates  have  hung. 

It  was  a  cheerful  breakfast,  thanks 
to  Raynal,  who  was  in  high  spirits  and 
would  not  allow  a  word  of  regret  from 
any  one.  Madame  Raynal  sat  by  his 
side,  looking  up  at  him  every  now  and 
then  with  innocent  admiration.  A 
merry  wedding  breakfast ! 

Oh  !  if  we  could  see  through  the 
walls  of  houses ! 

Five  doors  off  sat  a  wounded  sol- 
dier alone,  recruiting  the  small  rem- 
nant of  his  sore-tried  strength,  that  he 
might  struggle  on  to  Beaurepaire,  and 
lose  in  one  moment  years  of  separa- 
tion, pain,  prison,  anguish,  martyr- 
dom, in  one  great  gush  of  joy  without 
compare. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

TuE  wedding  breakfast  was  ended. 
The  time  was  drawing  near  to  part. 
There  was  a  silence.  It  was  broken 
by  Madame  Raynal. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  she,  a  little  tim- 
idlj',  "  have  you  reflected  ?  " 

"On  what?" 

"  About  taking  me  to  Egypt." 

"No  ;  I  have  not  given  it  a  thought 
since  I  said  '  no.'  " 

"  Yet  permit  me  to  say  that  it  is 
my  duty  to  be  by  your  side,  my  hus- 
band ! "  and  she  colored  at  this  word, 
—  it  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever 
used  it. 

"  Not  when  I  excuse  you." 

"  I  would  not  be  an  encumbrance 


to  you,  monsieur:  I  should  not  be 
useless.  I  could  add  more  to  his 
comfort  than  he  gives  me  credit  for, 
messieurs." 

Warm  assent  of  the  mayor  and  no- 
tary. 

"  I  give  you  credit  for  being  an  an- 
gel, my  wife." 

He  looked  up.  Laure  was  trem- 
bling, her  fork  shaking  in  her  poor 
little  hand. 

She  cast  a  piteous  glance  at  him. 

"  But  all  the  generosity  must  not  be 
on  your  side.  You  shall  go  with  me 
next  time ;  that  is  settled.  Let  us 
speak  of  it  no  more." 

"  Monsieur,  I  submit.  At  least, 
give  me  something  to  do  for  you 
while  you  are  away.  Ah  !  tell  me 
what  I  can  do  for  my  absent  friend  to 
show  my  gratitude  —  my  regard  — 
my  esteem." 

"Well,  madame,  —  let  me  think. 
Well,  I  saw  a  plain  gray  dress  at 
Beaurepaire." 

"  Yes,  monsieur.  My  gray  silk, 
Laure." 

"  I  like  that  dress." 

"  Monsieur,  the  moment  I  reach 
home  after  losing  you  I  shall  put  it 
on,  and  it  shall  be  my  constant  wear. 
I  see,  —  you  are  right,  —  gray  becomes 
a  wife  whose  husband  is  not  dead,  but 
is  absent,  and  alas !  in  hourly  dan- 
ger." 

"  Now  look  at  that !  "  cried  Raynal 
to  the  company.  "  That  is  her  all 
over ;  she  can  see  six  meanings  where 
another  would  see  but  one.  I  never 
thought  of  that,  I  swear.  I  like  mod- 
est colors,  that  is  all.  My  mother  used 
to  be  all  for  modest  wives  wealing 
modest  colors." 

"  Count  on  me,  monsieur.  Is  there 
nothing  more  difficult  you  will  be  so 
good  as  give  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  No  ;  there  is  only  one  order  more, 
and  that  will  be  easier  still  to  such  a 
woman  as  you.  I  commit  to  jour 
care,  mademoiselle,  —  madame,  I 
mean,  —  the  name  of  Raynal.  It  is 
not  so  high  a  name  as  yours,  but  it  is 
as  honest.  I  am  proud  of  it,  —  I  am 
jealous  of  it.     I  shall  guard  it  for  you 


WHITE  LIES. 


153 


in  Ejiypt ;  you  guard  it  in  France  for 
me." 

"  With  my  life  !  "  cried  Josephine, 
lifting  her  eyes  and  her  hand  to  heaven. 

Raynal  rang  the  hell,  and  ordered 
his  charger  round. 

The  baroness  began  to  cry. 

"  The  young  people  may  hope  to 
see  you  again,"  said  she;  "  but  there 
are  two  chances  against  your  poor  old 
mother." 

"  Courage,  mother !  "  cried  the  stout 
soldier.  "  No,  no  ;  you  won't  play 
me  such  a  trick,  —  once  is  enough  for 
that  game." 

"My  brother!"  cried  Laure,  "do 
not  go  without  kissing  your  little  sis- 
ter, who  loves  you  and  thanks  you." 

He  kissed  her. 

"  Brave,  generous  man  !  "  she  cried, 
with  her  arms  round  his  neck ;  "  God 
protect  you,  and  send  you  back  safe 
to  us  !  " 

"  Amen  !  "  cried  all  present,  by  one 
impulse,  —  even  the  cold  notary. 

Raynal's  mustache  quivered. 

He  kissed  Josephine  hastily  on  the 
brow ;  the  baroness  on  both  cheeks, 
shook  the  men's  hands  warmly  but 
hastily,  and  strode  out  without  look- 
ing behind  him. 

They  followed  him  to  the  door  of 
the  house.  He  was  tightening  his 
horse's  girths  He  flung  himself  with 
all  the  resolution  of  his  steel  nature 
into  the  saddle,  and,  with  one  grand 
wave  of  his  cocked  hat  to  the  tearful 
group,  he  spurred  away  for  Egypt. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

The  baroness  made  the  doctor  go 
shopping. 

"  I  must  buy  Laure  a  gray  silk." 

In  doing  this  she  saw  many  other 
tempting  things.     I  say  no  more. 

Meantime  the  young  ladies  went 
up  to  Beaurepairo  in  the  other  car- 
riage, for  Josephine  wished  to  avoid 
the  gaze  of  the  town,  and  get  home, 
and  be  quiet. 

The  driver  went  very  fast.  He  had 
7* 


drank  the  bride's  health  at  the  may- 
or's, item  the  bridegroom's,  the  brides- 
maid's, the  mayor's,  &c.,  &c.,  and  "  a 
spur  in  the  head  is  worth  two  in  the 
heel,"  says  the  proverb.  The  sisters 
leaned  back  on  the  soft  cushions  and 
enjoyed  the  smooth  and  rapid  motion 
once  so  familiar  to  them,  so  rare  of 
late. 

Then  Laure  took  her  sister  gently 
to  task  for  having  offered  to  go  to 
Egypt. 

"  You  forgot  me,  cruel  one." 

"  No,  love,  did  you  not  see  I  dared 
not  look  towards  you.  I  love  you 
better  than  all  the  world  ;  but  this 
was  my  duty.  I  was  his  wife  :  I  had 
no  longer  a  feeble  inclination  and 
a  feeble  disinclination  to  decide  be- 
tween, —  but  right  on  one  side,  wrong 
on  the  other." 

"  O,  I  know  where  your  ladyship's 
strength  lies  :  my  force  is  —  in  —  my 
inclinations." 

"  Yes  !  Laure,"  continued  Jose- 
phine, thoughtfully,  "  duty  is  a  great 
comfort,  —  it  is  tangible,  —  it  is  some- 
thing to  lay  hold  of  for  life  or  death  : 
a  strong  tower  for  the  weak  but  well 
disposed." 

"  How  fast  we  glide,  Josephine,  — 
it  is  so  nice.  I  am  not  above  own- 
ing I  love  a  carriage  ;  now  l(^n  back 
with  me,  and  take  my  hand,  and  as 
we  glide  shut  your  eyes  and  think, 
—  whisper  me  all  your  feelings,  all, 
all." 

"  Laure,"  said  Josephine,  half  clos- 
ing her  eyes,  "  I  feel  a  great  calm,  a 
heavenly  calm." 

"  I  thought  you  would,"  murmured 
Laure. 

"  My  fate  is  decided.  No  more 
suspense.  My  duties  are  clear.  I 
have  a  husband  I  am  proud  of  There 
is  no  perfidy  with  him,  no  deceit,  no 
disingenuousness,  no  shade.  He  is  a 
human  sun.  Nothing  unmanl}- either. 
No  feebleness  :  one  can  lean  on  him. 
He  will  make  me  a  better,  truer 
woman,  and  I  him  a  happier  man. 
Yes,  is  it  not  nice  to  think  tliat  great 
and  strong  as  he  is  I  can  teach  him  a 
happiness    ho    knows   not   as   yet  ? " 


154 


WHITE   LIES. 


And  she  smiled  with  the  sense  of  her 
delicate  power. 

"  Yes,  go  on,  dear,"  purred  Laure, 
"  I  seem  to  see  your  pretty  little 
thou;^hts  rising  out  of  your  heart  like 
a  bubbling  fountain  :  go  on." 

"  Yes,  love,  and  then,  gratitude,  — 
Laurc,  I  have  heard  it  said,  or  read 
it  somewhere,  that  gratitude  is  a  bur- 
den :  I  don't  understand  tiiat  senti- 
ment, —  why,  to  me  gratitude  is  a 
delight,  gratitude  is  a  passion.  It  is 
the  warmest  of  all  the  tender  feelings 
I  have  for  dear  Monsieur  Raynal.  I 
feel  it  glow  here  —  in  my  bosom." 

"  One  word,  dear  :  do  you  think 
you  shall  love  him  1  " 

"  Indeed,  I  do." 

"  When  1  " 

"  0,  long  before  he  comss  back." 

"  Before  ?  " 

Josephine,  her  eyes  still  half  closed, 
went  murmuring  on.  "  His  virtues 
will  always  be  present  to  me.  His 
little  faults  of  manner  will  not  be  in 
sight.  Good  Raynal !  The  image  of 
those  great  qualities  I  revere  so,  per- 
haps because  I  fail  in  them  myself, 
will  be  before  my  mind  :  and  ere  he 
comes  home  I  shall  love  him  :  don't 
you  think  so  '\  tell  me." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  I  love  him  al- 
ready. I  am  a  selfish  girl.  My  moth- 
er found  me  out.  I  am  so  much 
obliged  to  her.  But  I  am  not  a  wick- 
ed girl :  and  if  I  have  been  unkind  to 
him,  I  will  make  it  up  to  him.  Go 
on,  dear,  tell  me  your  whole  heart." 

"  Yes.  One  reason  why  I  wished 
to  go  home  at  once  was  —  no  — 
guess." 

"  To  put  on  your  gray  silk.  O,  I 
know  you" 

"  Yes,  Laure,  it  was  :  dear  good 
Raynal.  Yes,  I  feel  prouder  of  his 
honest  name  than  of  our  noble  one. 
And  I  am  so  calm,  my  sister,  —  so 
tran(iuil,  —  so  pleased,  that  my  moth- 
er's mind  is  at  rest,  —  so  convinced  all 
is  for  the  best,  —  so  contented  with 
my  own  lot,  —  so  hap — py." 

A  gentle  tear  stole  from  beneath  her 
long  lashes.  Laure  looked  at  her 
wistfully  :  then  laid  her  cheek  to  hers. 


They  leaned  back  hand  in  hand,  placid 
and  silent. 

The  carriage  glided  fast.  Beaure- 
paire  was  almost  in  sight. 

Suddenly  Josephine's  hand  tight- 
ened on  Laure's,  and  she  sat  up  in  the 
carriage  like  a  person  awakened. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Laure.  "  Are 
we  at  home  ?     No." 

Josephine  turned  quickly  round. 
"  No  window  at  the  back,"  said  she. 

Laure  instantly  put  her  head  out  at 
the  side  window. 

"What  is  it?  I  see  nothing.  What 
was  it  ?  " 

"  Some  one  in  uniform." 

"  0,  is  that  all." 

"I  saw  an  epaulet." 

"  O,  an  officer !  I  saw  nobody. 
To  be  sure  the  road  took  a  turn.  Ah  ! 
you  thought  it  was  a  message  from 
Raynal." 

"0  no  !  on  foot,  —  walking  very 
slowly.  Coming  this  Avay,  too. 
Coming  this  way  !  Coming  this 
way  !  " 

"Ah,  bah!  it  is  no  such  rarity, — 
there  are  plenty  of  soldiers  on  the 
road." 

"  Not  officers,  —  en  foot." 

After  a  pause  Josephine  added  :  — 

"  He  seemed  to  drag  himself  along." 

"  0,  did  he  ^"  cried  Laure,  careless- 
ly. "  Here  we  are  ;  we  are  just  at 
home." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  Josephine, 
"  very  glad." 

"  Will  you  go  up  stairs  and  put  on 
your  gown  ? " 

"  Presently.  Let  us  walk  in  the 
Pleasance  a  minute  first  for  the  air." 

They  walked  in  the  Pleasance. 

"  How  you  tear  along,  Josephine ! 
Stop,  let  me  look  at  you  !  What  is 
the  matter  1  " 

"  Nothing  !  nothing  !  " 

"  There  's  a  fretful  tone  ;  and  how 
excited  you  are,  why,  you  burn  all 
over.  Well,  it 's  no  wonder  ;  I 
thought  you  were  calmer  than  natural 
after  such  an  event." 

"  Who  could  he  be,  Laure  ?  " 

"  Who  1  " 


WHITE  LIES. 


155 


"That  officer.  I  only  saw  his 
back  :  but  did  you  not  sec  him, 
Laure  1  " 

"  No." 

"  Arc  you  sure  you  did  not  see  him 
at  all  1 " 

"  Why,  of  course  not :  I  don't  be- 
lieve there  was  one  ;  I  am  wrong  ;  for 
there  comes  his  cocked  hat :  I  can  see 
it  bob  every  now  and  then  above  the 
palings." 

Josephine  turned  very  slowly  round 
and  looked  :  she  said  nothing. 

"  Come,  dear,"  said  Laure,  "  let  us 
go  in  :  the  only  cocked  hat  we  care 
for  is  on  the  way  to  Paris  !  " 

"  Yes,  Laure  :  let  us  go  in.  No  !  I 
can't  go  in,  —  I  feel  faint :  I  want  air  : 
I  shall  stay  out  a  little  longer  ! 
Look,  Laure,  what  a  shame  !  They 
put  all  manner  of  rubbish  into  this 
dear  old  tree  :  I  will  have  it  all 
turned  out  ! "  and  she  looked  with 
feigned  interest  into  the  tree  ;  but  her 
eyes  seemed  turned  inward. 

Laure  gave  a  cry  of  sui-prise. 

"  Josephine !  " 

"  What  ?     What  ?  " 

"  He  is  waving  his  hat  to  me  ! 
What  on  earth  does  that  mean  1  " 

"  He  takes  you  for  me ! "  said 
Josephine. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  he !  I  knew  his  figure  at  a 
glance  !  "  and  slic  blushed  and  trem- 
bled with  joy ;  she  darted  into  the 
tree  and  tried  to  look  through  the  aper- 
tures :  but  she  could  not  see  at  that 
angle  :  turning  round  she  found  Laure 
at  her  back,  pale  and  stern. 

"  Ah  !  Laure,  I  forgot  !  !  " 

"  Are  you  mad,  Josephine  1  into 
the  house  this  moment,  —  if  it  is  he, 
I  will  receive  and  dismiss  him.  Fly  ! 
quick  !  for  Heaven's  sake." 

"I  can't!  I  must  hear!  0,  don't 
fear  !  he  shall  never  see  me  !  I  must 
know  why  he  comes  here  to-day  and 
not  for  all  these  years  :  some  mystery 
is  here  :  something  terrible  is  going 
to  happen  !  something  terrible  !  —  ter- 
rible !  —  terrible  !  —  go  outside ;  let 
him  see  you  !  —  Oh  !  —  " 

Laure  no  sooner  got  round  the  tree 


again,  than  the  cocked  hat  stopped,— 
a  pale  face,  with  eyes  whose  eager  fire 
shone  all  that  way  into  the  tree,  rose 
up  and  looked  over  the  palings,  and 
never  moved. 

Josephine's  eyes  were  fixed  on  it. 

"  I  feel  something  terrible  coming  ! 
something  terrible  !  terrible  !  " 

"  Malediction  on  him,  heartless, 
selfish  traitor  !  "  cried  Laure.  "  He 
has  deserted  you  these  three  years : 
they  have  told  him  you  are  married  :  so 
he  hunts  you  directly,  to  destroy  your 
peace.  Ah  !  I  am  glad  you  are  come, 
wretch,  to  hear  that  a  better  man  than 
you  has  got  her :  Josephine,  you  lis- 
ten :  I  will  tell  him  that  you  have  a 
husband  whom  yon  love  as  you  never 
loved  him ;  and  that  if  he  dares  to 
show  his  face  here  you  will  laugh  at 
him,  and  your  husband  will  kill  him 
or  kick  him.  0, 1  '11  insult  the  Idche  : 
I  'II  insult  him  as  you  never  saw  a 
man  insulted  yet." 

"  No,  you  will  not !  "  said  Josephine, 
doggedly  :  "  for  I  should  iiate  you." 

"  Ah  !  Josephine  !  —  cruel  Jose- 
phine. The  accursed  wretch  !  for  him 
you  have  stabbed  me  !  " 

"  And  you  me  !  Unmask  him,  and 
I  will  bless  you  on  my  knees  !  But 
pray  do  not  insult  him.  We  are 
parted  forever.  Be  wise  now,  girl,  be 
shrewd,"  hissed  Josephine,  in  a  tone 
of  which  one  would  not  have  thought 
her  capable.  "  Find  out  who  is  the 
woman  who  has  seduced  him  from  me, 
and  has  brought  two  wretches  to  this ! 
I  tell  you  it  is  some  bad  woman's 
doing  !     He  loved  me  once." 

"  Not  so  loud  !  —  one  word  !  —  3'ou 
are  a  wife  !  You  will  not  let  him  see 
you,  — swear!" 

"  O,  never!  never!  Death  soon- 
er !  When  you  have  heard  all,  then 
tell  him  I  am  gone — tell  him  I  went 
to  Egypt  this  day  with  him  I  —  Ah  ! 
would  to  God  I  had  ! " 

"  Sh  !  sh  !  " 

"  Sh  !  " 

Camille  was  at  the  little  gate. 

Laure  stood  still,  and  nerved  herself 
in  silence.  Josephine  panted  in  her 
hiding-place. 


156 


WHITE   LIES. 


Laure's  only  thought  now  was  to 
expose  the  traitor  to  her  sister,  and 
restore  her  to  that  sweet  peace.  She 
would  not  see  Cainille  till  he  was  near 
her.  He  came  eagerly  towards  her, 
his  pale  face  flushing  with  great  joy, 
and  his  eyes  like  diamonds. 

"  Josephine  !  it  is  not  Josephine  ! 
Why  this  must  be  Laure,  little  Laure 
grown  up  to  a  fine  lady,  a  beautiful 
lady  —  my  darling  !  !  " 

"  What  do  you  come  lierc  for,  mon- 
sieur ? "  asked  Laure,  in  a  tone  of 
icy  inditfcrence. 

"What  do  I  come  hero  for?"  is 
tliat  the  way  to  speak  to  me  ?  but  I 
am  too  happy  to  mind.     Dear  Beau- 
repaire  !  do   I   see   you  once   again  ? 
Ah,  Laure,  I  am  not  given  to  despair, 
but   there   have  been  moments,  look 
you  —   Bah  !  it  is  past.     I  am  here." 
"  And  madame  ?  " 
"  What  madame  1  " 
"Madame  Dujardin  that  is  or  was 
to  be." 

"  This  is  the  first  I  have  ever  heard 
of  her,"  said  Camillc,  gayly. 

"  This  is  odd,  for  we  have  heard  all 
about  it." 

"  Are  vou  jesting  1  " 
"  No !  ■" 

"  If  I  understand  you   right,  you 
imply  that  I  have  broken  faith  with 
Josephine  ?  " 
"  Certainly !  " 

"  You  lie  !  Mademoiselle  Laure  dc 
Beaurepaire." 
"Insolent!" 

"  No  !  it  is  you  who  have  insulted 
your  sister  as  well  as  me.     She  was 
not  made  to  be  deserted   for  meaner 
women.     AVith   me  it  has  ever  been 
one  God,  one  Josephine  !     Come,  ma- 
demoiselle, insult  me,  and  me  alone, 
and  you  shall  find  me  more  patient. 
O,  who  would  have  thought  Beaure- 
paire would  receive  me  thus?  " 
"  It  is  your  own  fault." 
"  Are  you  sure  "?  " 
"  Positive." 

"  Not  my  misfortune  ?  " 
"  You  never  sent  her  a  line  for  all 
these  years." 
"  Alas,  no !  how  could  I  ?  " 


'  "  Nonsense  :  well,  monsieur,  the  in- 
formation  you  did  not  supply  others 
did." 

"  All  the  better  ?  who  ?  how  ?  " 
"  We  know  from  excellent  author- 
ity that  you  deserted  to  the  enemy." 

"  I !  Camille  Dujardin  —  deserted  ! 
Josephine,  why  are  you  not  here  ?  I 
know  how  to  answer  a  man  who  in- 
sults me,  l)ut  what  can  I  say  to  a 
woman  ?  O  God,  do  you  hear  what 
they  say  to  me  after  all  I  have  gone 
through  1  " 

"Ah,  monsieur,  you  act  well!" 
said  Laure,  acting  herself,  for  her 
heart  began  to  quake  :  "  let  us  cut  this 
short :  you  were  seen  in  a  Spanish  vil- 
lage drinking  between  two  guerillas  ?  " 
"  Well ! " 

"  An  honest  French  soldier  fired  at 
you  ? " 
"  He  did." 

"  You  confess  it,"  cried  Laure,  joy- 
fully. 

"  The  bullet  passed  through  my 
hand,  — here  is  the  mark,  look." 

"  Ah  !  ah  !     He  and  his  comrades 
told  us  all.  " 
"  All  1 " 
"  All ! " 

"  Did  he  tell  you  that  under  the 
table  I  was  chained  tiglit  down  to  the 
chair  I  sat  in  1  Did  he  tell  you  that 
my  hand  was  fastened  to  a  drinking- 
horn,  and  my  elbow  to  the  table,  and 
two  fellows  sitting  opposite  me  with 
pistols  quietly  covering  me,  ready  to 
draw  the  trigger  if  I  should  utter  a 
cry  ■?  Did  he  tell  you  that  I  would 
have  uttered  that  cry  and  died  at  that 
table  but  for  one  thing  1  —  I  had  prom- 
ised her  to  live." 

"  What  an  improbable  story  !  "  said 
Laure,  but  her  voice  trembled.  "  Be- 
sides, what  became  of  you  this  three 
years  1     Not  a  word,  —  not  a  line." 

"  Mademoiselle,"  began  Camille, 
very  coldly,  "  if  you  are  really  my 
Josephine's  sister,  j-ou  will  reproach 
yourself  for  this  so  bitterly  that  I  need 
not  reproach  you.  If  she  I  love  were 
to  share  these  unworthy  suspicions  it 
would  kill  me  on  the  spot.  I  am 
tken  on  my  defence.     I  feel  myself 


WHITE  LIES. 


157 


blush,  —  God  !  —  but  it  is  for  you  I 
blusli,  not  for  myself.  This  is  what 
became  of  inc,  I  went  out  alone  to  ex- 
plore. I  fell  into  an  ambuscade.  I 
was  surrounded.  I  shot  one  of  them, 
and  pinked  another,  but  my  arm  be- 
innf  broken  by  a  bullet,  and  my  horse 
killed  under  me,  the  rascals  jjot  me. 
I  was  in  fact  insensible,  probably  from 
loss  of  blood,  —  a  cut  in  the  tliiffh. 
These  fellows  throw  their  knives  with 
great  force  and  skill.  They  took  me 
about  with  them,  tried  to  make  a  de- 
coy of  me,  as  I  have  told  you,  and 
ended  |by  throwing  me  into  a  dun- 
geon, —  a  dani|i,  dark  dungeon.  They 
loaded  me  with  chains  too,  though 
the  walls  were  ten  feet  thick,  and  the 
door  iron,  and  bolted  and  double- 
bolted  outside.  And  there  for  months 
and  years,  in  spite  of  wounds,  hunger, 
thirst,  and  all  the  tortures  those  cow- 
ards made  me  suffer,  I  lived,  because, 
Laure,  I  had  promised  some  one  at 
that  gate  there  "  (and  he  turned  sud- 
denly and  pointed  to  it)  "  that  I  would 
come  back  alive.  At  last  one  night 
my  jailer  came  to  my  cell  drunk.  I 
seized  him  by  the  throat  and  throttled 
him  :  I  did  not  kill  him,  but  I  griped 
him  till  he  was  insensible  :  his  keys 
unlocked  my  fetters,  and  locked  them 
again  upon  his  limbs,  and  locked  him 
in  the  cell,  and  I  got  safely  outside. 
But  there  a  sentinel  saw  me,  and  fired 
at  mc.  He  missed  me,  but  ran  after 
me,  and  caught  mc,  —  for  1  was  stiff, 
confined  so  long,  —  he  gave  mc  a 
thrust  of  his  bayonet,  I  flung  my 
heavy  keys  fiercely  in  his  face,  —  he 
staggered,  —  I  wrested  his  piece  from 
him,  and  disableu  him." 

"  Ah ! " 

"  I  crossed  the  frontier  in  the  night, 
and  got  to  Bayonne;  and  thence,  day 
and  night,  to  Paris.  There  I  met  a 
reward  for  all  my  anguish.  A  greater 
is  behind,  a  greater  is  behind !  They 
gave  me  the  epaulets  of  a  colonel. 
See,  here  they  are.  France  does  not 
give  these  to  traitors,  young  lady. 
And  from  the  moment  I  left  dark 
Spain  and  entered  once  more  la  belle 
France,  every  man  and  woman  on  the 


road  was  so  kind,  so  sympathizing ; 
some  cried  after  me, '  God  speed  you  ! ' 
They  felt  for  the  ])oor  worn  soldier 
coming  back  to  his  love.  All  but 
you,  Laure.  You  told  me  I  was  a 
traitor." 

"  Forgive  me.  I  —  I — "and  she 
thought,  "  0  Heaven  enlighten  me, — 
what  shall  I  say  ?  —  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  O,  if  you  repent,"  cried  he,  "that 
is  diflfcrent,  I  forgive  you.  There  is 
my  hand.  You  are  not  a  soldier,  and 
did  not  know  what  you  were  talking 
about.  I  am  very  sorry  I  spoke  so 
harshly  to  you.  But  you  understand. 
IIow  you  look  !  How  you  pant ! 
Poor  child  !  I  forgive  you.  There, 
I  will  show  you  how  I  forgive  you. 
These  epaulets,  dear,  —  I  have  never 
put  them  on.  I  said,  no,  Josephine 
shall  put  them  on  for  me.  I  will  take 
honor  as  well  as  happiness  from  her 
dear  hand.  But  you  are  her  sister, 
and  what  are  epaulets  compared 
with  what  she  will  give  mc  1  You 
shall  put  them  on,  dear.  Come;  then 
you  will  be  sure  I  bear  no  malice." 

Laure,  faint  at  heart,  consented  in 
silence,  and  fastened  on  the  epaulets. 
"  Yes,  Camille,"  she  said,  "  think  of 
glory  now  :  nothing  but  gXovj." 

"  No  one  thinks  of  it  more.  But 
to-day  how  can  I  think  of  it,  how  can 
I  give  her  a  rival  ?  To-day,  I  am  all 
love.  Laure,  no  man  ever  loved  a 
human  creature  as  I  love  Josephine. 
Your  mother  is  well,  dear  ?  All  are 
well  at  Beaurepaire  1  0,  where  is  she 
all  this  time  1  in  the  house  1 "  He  was 
moving  quickly  towards  the  house : 
but  Laure  in  turn  put  out  her  hand  to 
stop  him.  He  recoiled  a  little  and 
winced. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  cried  she. 

"  Nothing,  dear  giil ;  you  put  your 
hand  on  my  wound,  —  that  is  all." 

"  O,  you  are  wounded  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  got  a  bayonet  thrust  from 
one  of  the  sentinels  when  I  escaped 
from  prison.  It  is  a  little  inflamed,  I 
will  tell  you  ;  but  you  must  promise 
and  not  tell  Josephine ;  why  vex  that 
angel  ?  This  wound  has  worried  me 
a  little  all  the  way.     They  wanted  me 


158 


WHITE  LIES. 


to  stop  and  lay  up  at  Bayonne,  —  how 
could  I'?  ami  again  at  Paris,  —  how 
could  I  ?  They  said,  '  You  will  die' 
'  Not  before  I  get  to  Beaurepaire,'  said 
I.  I  could  bear  the  motion  of  a  horse 
no  longer.  I  asked  for  a  carriage. 
Would  you  believe  it?  —  both  his 
carriages  were  out  at  a  wedding.  I 
could  not  wait  till  they  came  back.  I 
have  waited  an  eternity.  I  came  on 
foot.  I  dragged  myself  along,  —  the 
body  was  weak,  but  the  heart  was 
strong.  A  little  way  from  here  my 
wound  seemed  inclined  to  open ;  I 
pressed  it  togetlier  tight  with  my 
hand ;  you  see  I  could  not  afford  to 
lose  any  more  blood,  and  so  struggled 
on.  '  Die  ? '  said  I,  '  not  before  Beau- 
repaire.' And  O  Laure,  now  I 
could  be  content  to  die,  —  at  her  feet, 

—  for  I  am  happy !  —  0,1  am  happy  ! 
What  I  have  gone  through  !  But  I 
kept  my  word,  —  and  this  is  Beaure- 
paire !  Hurrah  !  "  —  and  his  pale 
cheek  flushed  feebly,  and  his  eye 
gleamed,  and  he  waved  his  hat  feebly 
over  his  head,  —  "  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 
hurrah  ! " 

"  O,  don't !  —  don't !  —  don't !  " 

"  How  can  I  help  ? — I  am  wild  with 
joy,  —  hurrah!  hurrah!  hurrah!" 

"  Oh  !  no  !  no  !  no  !  no  !  no  !  " 

"  What  is  the  matter "?  " 

"  Oh  !  must  I  stab  you  worse  tlian 
all  your  enemies  have  stabbed  you  1  " 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  You  turn 
me  cold,  —  very  cold.  What  is  the 
matter?  Josephine  does  not  come. 
My  heart !  " 

"  Camille,  —  my  poor  Camille  ! 
there  is  but  one  thing  for  you  to  do. 
Leave  Beaurepaire  on  the  instant, — 
fly  from  it,  —  it  is  no  place  for  vou." 

"  She  is  dead  ! " 

"  No." 

"  She  is  dead  !  —  she  does  not 
come  to  me,  —  she  is  dead  !  You  arc 
all  in  white,  —  thc}^  mourn  in  white 
for  angels  like  her  that  go  to  Heaven, 

—  virgins!  Oh!  I  was  blind.  You 
might  have  told  me  at  once.  You  see 
I  can  bear  it.  What  does  it  matter 
to  one  who  loves  ns  I  love  1  It  is 
only  to  give   her  one  more  proof  I 


lived  only  for  her.  I  would  have 
died  a  hundred  times  but  for  my  prom- 
ise to  her.  Yes !  I  am  coming,  love  ! 
I  am  coming  ! " 

He  fell  on  his  knees  and  smiled, 
and  whispered  :  — 

"  I  am  coming,  Josephine,  — I  am 
coming ! " 

A  sob  and  a  moan  as  of  a  creature 
dying  in  anguish  answered  him. 

Laure  screamed  with  terror  when 
she  heard  it. 

Camille  rose  wildly  to  his  feet. 

"  I  hear  her !  she  is  behind  the 
tree." 

"  No  !  no  !  " 

A  rustle  and  a  rush  were  heard  in 
the  tree. 

Camille  darted  furiously  round  the 
tree.  Laure  followed  the  next  mo- 
ment. 

Josephine  was  in  his  arms. 

Josepliine  wrestled  long  and  terri- 
bly with  nature  in  that  old  oak-tree. 
But  who  can  so  struggle  forever? 
Anguish,  remorse,  horror,  despair, 
and  love  wrenched  her  heart  to  and 
fro,  like  giants  fighting  for  a  prey : 
and  oh  !  mysterious  human  heart ! 
gleams  of  a  mad  fitful  joy  shot 
through  her,  coming  quick  as  light- 
ning, going  as  quickly,  and  leaving  the 
despair  darker.  And  oh !  tiie  fierce 
struggle  of  the  soul  to  make  itself 
heard.  More  than  once  she  had  to 
close  her  mouth  with  her  hand  :  more 
than  once  she  seized  her  throat,  not  to 
cry  out.  But,  as  the  struggle  endured, 
she  got  weaker  and  weaker,  and  na- 
ture mightier  and  mightier.  And 
when  the  wounded  hero  fell  on  his 
knees  so  close  to  her,  —  when  he 
who  had  resisted  death  so  bravely  for 
her  prepared  to  give  up  life  calmly 
for  her,  her  bosom  rose  beyond  all 
control :  it  seemed  to  fill  to  choking, 
tlien  to  split  wide  open  and  give  the 
struggling  soul  passage  in  one  gasp- 
ing sob  and  heart-stricken  cry. 

Could  she  have  pent  this  in,  she 
must  have  died. 

It  betrayed  her.  She  felt  it  had : 
then   came  the  woman's  instinct, — • 


WHITE  LIES. 


159 


flight :  the  coward's  impulse, —  flight ; 
the  chtistc  wife's  instinct, — flight: 
Siie  rusiied  from  her  hiding-place  and 
made  wildly  for  the  house. 

But  Camille  was  darting  round  the 
tree.  She  ran  right  upon  him.  lie 
caught  her  in  his  arms.  He  lield  her 
irresistibly.  "  I  have  got  her,  —  I 
have  got"  her,"  he  shouted  in  wild 
triumph.  "  No  !  I  will  not  let  you 
go.  None  but  God  shall  ever  take 
you  from  me,  and  he  has  spared  you 
to  me.  You  are  not  dead  :  you  have 
kept  faith  as  I  have !  You  have  lived. 
See  !  lo<)k  at  me.  I  am  alive,  —  I  am 
well,  —  I  am  happy.  I  told  Laure  I 
had  suffered.  I  lied.  If  I  had  suf- 
fered I  should  remember  it.  It  is  ail 
gone  at  sight  of  you,  my  love !  my 
love  !     0  my  Josephine  !  my  love  !  " 

His  arm  was  firm  round  her  waist. 
His  glowing  eyes  poured  love  upon 
her.     She  felt  his  beating  heart. 

All  that  passed  in  her,  —  what 
mortal  can  say  1  She  seemed  two 
women  :  that  part  of  her  which  could 
not  get  away  from  ids  strong  arm 
lost  all  strength  to  resist,  —  it  yielded 
and  thrilled  under  his  embrace,  her 
bosom  heaving  madly ;  all  that  was 
free  writhed  away  from  him ;  her 
face  was  averted  with  a  glare  of 
terror,  and  both  her  hands  put  up  be- 
tween his  eyes  and  it. 

"  You  turn  away  your  head.  Laure, 
she  turns  away.  Speak  for  me. 
Scold  her ;  for  I  don't  know  how  to 
scold  her.  No  answer  from  either ; 
O  what  has  turned  your  hearts 
against  me  so  1  " 

"  Camille,"  cried  Laure,  the  tears 
streaming  down  her  cheeks,  "  my 
poor  Camille !  leave  Beaurepairc. 
O,  leave  it  at  once." 

He  turned  towards  her  with  a  look 
of  inquiry. 

At  that  Josephine,  like  some  feeble 
but  nimble  wild  creature  on  whom  a 
grasp  has  relaxed,  writhed  away  from 
him  and  fled.  "  Farewell !  Farewell !  " 
she  cried. 

It  seemed  desjiair  itself  who  spoke. 

She  had  not  taken  six  steps  when 
Jacintha    met     her    right    in    front. 


"  Madame  Raynal,"  she  cried,  cour- 
tesy ing,  "  the  baroness  is  in  the  sum- 
mer-house, and  wants  to  speak  to 
you.  I  was  the  first  to  call  her 
madame " ;  and  Jacintha,  little 
dreaming  of  all  she  had  done,  went 
off' in  triuni]))!,  after  another  courtesy. 

This  blow  turned  those  three  to 
stone. 

Josephine  had  no  longer  the  power 
or  the  wish  to  fly.  "  Better  so,"  she 
thought,  and  she  stood  cowering. 
Then  the  great  passions  that  had 
spoken  so  loud  were  struck  dumb, 
and  a  deep  silence  fell  upon  the  place. 
Madame  Raynal's  quivering  eye 
turned  slowly  and  askant  towards 
Camille,  but  stopped  in  terror  ere  it 
could  see  him. 

Silence,  —  dead  silence  ! 

The  ladies  knew  by  this  fearful 
stillness  that  the  truth  was  creeping 
on  Camille. 

Madame  Raynal  cowered  more  and 
more. 

Camille  spoke  one  word  in  a  low 
whisper :  — 

"  Madame  ?  " 

Dead  silence. 

"White?  both  in  white"?  " 

"  Camille,  it  was  our  doing.  "We 
drove  her  to  it.  0  sir,  look  how 
afraid  of  you  she  is.  Do  not  kill 
her ;  do  not  reproach  her,  if  you  arc 
a  man." 

He  waved  her  out  of  his  way  as  if 
she  had  btcn  some  idle  feather,  and 
he  walked  up  to  Josephine.  "  It  is 
for  you  to  speak  to  me,  my  betrothed. 
Are  you  married  ?  "  The  poor  crea- 
ture, true  to  her  nature,  was  thinking 
more  of  him  than  herself.  Even  in 
her  despair  it  flashed  across  her,  "  If 
he  knew  all,  he  too  would  be  wretched 
for  life.  If  I  let  him  scorn  me,  he 
may  be  happy  one  day."  She  cowered, 
the  picture  of  sorrow  and  tongue-tied 
guilt. 

"  Arc  vou  a  wife  ?  " 

"  Yes  \  " 

He  staggered. 

"  This  is  how  I  came  to  be  sus- 
pected :  she  I  loved  was  filse  t  " 

"  Yes,  CaiTiiUe  !  " 


IGO 


WHITE   LIES. 


"  No  !  no  !  "  cried  Laure.  "  She 
alone  never  suspected  you  ;  and  we 
have  brought  her  to  this,  —  we  alone." 

"  Be  silent,  Laure ;  0,  be  si- 
lent !  !  ! "  gasped  Josephine. 

"  I  lived  for  you  :  I  would  have 
died  for  you :  you  could  not  even 
wait  for  me." 

A  low  moan,  but  not  a  word  of  ex- 
cuse. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  now  ?  " 

"  Forget  me,  Camille"!  " 

"  Forget  you  ?  0  never  !  never  ! 
There  is  but  one  thing  I  can  do  to 
show  you  how  I  loved  you,  — forgive 
you,  and  begone.  Whither  shall  I 
go  ?  whither  shall  I  go  now  1 " 

"  0  Camille,  your  words  stab  her: 
she  —  " 

"  Be  silent !  let  none  speak  but  I,  — 
none  here  but  I  has  the  right  to  speak. 
Poor  weak  angel  that  loved  yet  could 
not  wait :  I  forgive  you  !  be  happy ! 
—  if  you  can  —  I  bid  you  be  hap-py  !  " 

The  gentle,  despairing  tones  died 
away,  and  with  them  life  seemed  to 
end  to  her,  and  hope  to  go  out.  He 
turned  his  back  quickly  on  her.  "  To 
the  army !  "  he  cried,  hoarsely.  He 
drew  himself  haughtily  up  in  march- 
ing attitude.  He  took  three  strides, 
erect  and  fiery  and  bold.  At  the 
fourth  the  great  heart  snapped,  and 
the  worn  body  it  had  held  up  so  long 
rolled  like  a  dead  log  upon  the  ground 
with  a  tremendous  fall. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

The  baroness  and  St.  Aubin  were 
walking  gently  on  the  South  Terrace, 
when  suddenly  they  heard  shrieks  of 
terror  in  the  Pleasance.  They  came 
with  quaking  hearts  as  fast  as  their 
old  limbs  would  carry  them.  They 
found  Laure  and  Josephine  crouched 
over  the  body  of  a  man,  —  an  officer. 

Laure  was  just  tearing  open  his  col- 
lar and  jacket.  Dard  and  Jacintha 
had  run  from  the  kitchen  at  the 
screams.  Camille  lay  on  his  back, 
white  and  motionless. 


The  doctor  now  came  up.  "  Who ! 
what  is  this?  "  He  shook  his  head. 
"  This  is  a  bad  case.  Stand  away, 
ladies.     Let  me  feel  his  pulse." 

Whilst  the  old  man  Avas  going  stiffly 
down  on  one  knee,  Jacintha  uttered  a 
cry  of  terror.  "  See !  see  !  his  shirt ! 
that  red  streak  !  Ah !  ah  !  it  is  get- 
ling  bigger  and  bigger "  :  and  she 
turned  faint  in  a  moment,  and  would 
have  fallen  but  for  Dard. 

The  doctor  looked.  "  All  the  bet- 
ter," said  he,  firmly.  "  I  thought  he 
was  dead !  His  blood  flows  :  then  I 
will  save  him  !  Don't  clutch  me  so, 
Josephine,  —  don't  cling  to  me  like 
that.  Now  is  the  time  to  show  your 
breed :  not  turn  sick  at  the  sight  of 
a  little  blood  like  that  foolish  crea- 
ture ;  but  help  me  save  the  poor 
man." 

"  Take  him  in-doors  !  "  cried  the 
baroness. 

"  Into  our  house,  mamma  ?  "  gasped 
Laure. 

"  The  lightning  would  strike  it  if 
we  did  not ! "  cried  the  baroness. 
"  What !  a  wounded  soldier  who  has 
fought  for  France  !  leave  him  to  lie 
and  die  outside  my  door,  —  never! 
what  would  my  son  say  1  He  is  a 
soldier." 

Laure  cast  a  hasty  look  at  Jose- 
phine ;  Josephine's  eyes  were  bent  on 
the  ground  and  her  hands  clenched. 

"  Now,  Jacintha,  you  be  oflf" !  " 
cried  the  doctor.  "  I  can't  have  cow- 
ards about  him  to  make  the  others  as 
bad  ;  go  and  stew  down  a  piece  of 
good  beef  for  him,  my  girl." 

"  That  I  will ;  poor  thing." 

The  baroness  recognized  Camille. 

"  Why,  I  know  him  :  it  is  an  old 
acquaintance,  young  Dujardin,  — you 
remember,  Josephine  ;  I  used  to  sus- 
pect him  of  a  fancy  for  you,  poor  fel- 
low !  Why,  he  must  have  come  here 
to  see  us,  —  poor  soul." 

"  No  matter  who  it  is,  —  it  is  a  man- 
Now,  girls,  have  you  courage,  have 
you  humanity  ?  Then  come  one  on 
each  side  of  him  and  take  hands  be- 
neath his  back,  while  I  lift  his  head 
and  Dard  his  legs." 


WHITE  LIES. 


ICl 


Dard  assented. 

"  And  handle  him  gently,  monsieur, 
whatever  you  do,"  said  Dard.  "  I 
know  what  it  is.  I  have  been  wound- 
ed." 

These  four  carried  the  lifeless  bur- 
den very  slowly  and  gently  across  the 
Pleasance  to  the  house :  then  with 
more  difficulty  and  caution  up  the 
stairs. 

All  the  while  the  sisters'  hands 
griped  one  another  tight  beneath  the 
lifeless  burden,  and  spoke  to  one  an- 
other. And  Josephine's  arms  upheld 
tenderlyj  but  not  weakly  the  hero  slie 
had  struck  down.  She  avoided 
Laure's  eye,  her  mother's  eye,  and 
even  the  doctor's  eye ;  one  gasping 
sob  escaped  her  as  she  walked  with 
head  half  averted  and  vacant,  terror- 
stricken  eyes,  and  her  victim  on  her 
sustaining  arm. 

They  laid  liim  in  the  tapestried 
chamber. 

"  I  must  have  an  airy  room  for 
liim,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Now,  away 
with  you,  girls  :  Dard,  help  me  un- 
dress him." 

Laure  took  Josephine's  hand  :  "  Sit 
on  the  stairs,"  said  she :  "  then 
■wlien  Dard  comes  out  we  shall 
liear." 

Josephine  obeyed  passively.  She 
sat  in  gloomy  silence,  her  eyes  on  the 
ground,  hke  one  waiting  for  her 
death-blow. 

Laure,  sick  at  lieart,  sat  silent  too. 
At  last  she  said  faintly,  "  Have  we 
done  well  1  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Josephine, 
doggedly.  Her  eyes  never  left  the 
ground. 

"  We  could  not  let  him  die  for 
want  of  care  and  skill.  He  will  not 
thank  us,  my  sister.  Better  to  die 
than  live." 

At  this  instant  Dard  came  runninsr 


down. 


Good     news !     Mesdemoi- 


selles !  good  news  !  the  wound  runs 
all  along :  it  is  not  deep,  like  mine 
was.  He  has  opened  iiis  eyes  and 
shut  them  again.  The  dear  good 
doctor  stopped  the  blood  in  a  twinkle. 
The  doctor  says  he  '11  be  bound  to 


save  him.  I  must  run  and  tell  Jacin- 
tha.    She  is  taking  on  in  the  kitchen." 

Josephine,  who  had  risen  eagerly 
from  her  despairing  posture,  clasped 
her  hands  together ;  then  lifted  up  her 
voice  and  wept. 

"  He  will  live  !  he  will  live .'  " 

When  she  had  wept  a  long  while 
she  said  to  Laure  :  "  Come,  my  sis- 
ter, help  your  poor  Josephine." 

"  Yes,  love,  what  1  " 

"  My  duty,"  faltered  Josephine,  — 
"  my  duty  that  an  hour  ago  seemed 
so  sweet."  And  she  fell  to  weeping 
patiently  again. 

They  went  to  Josephine's  room. 
She  crept  slowly  to  a  wardrobe,  and 
took  out  a  gray  silk  dress. 

"  O,  never  mind  for  to-day,"  cried 
Laure.     "  Alas  !  alas  !  " 

"  Help  me,  my  sister.  It  is  for 
myself  as  well." 

'"For  yourself?" 

"  To  remind  mc  every  moment  I 
am  Madame  Raynal." 

They  put  the  gray  gown  on  her, 
both  weeping  patiently.  It  will  be 
known  at  the  last  day  what  honest 
women  have  suffered  weeping  silently 
in  this  noisy  world. 

Camille  soon  recovered  his  senses 
and  a  portion  of  his  strength  :  then 
the  irritation  of  his  wound  brought 
on  fever.  This  in  turn  retired  before 
the  doctor's  remedies  and  a  sound 
constitution ;  but  it  left  behind  it  a 
great  weakness  and  general  prostra- 
tion. And  in  this  state  the  fate  of 
the  body  depends  greatly  on  the 
mind. 

The  baroness  and  the  doctor  went 
constantly  to  see  him  and  soothe  him  : 
he  smiled  and  often  thanked  them, 
but  his  eager  ej-es  watched  the  door 
for  one  who  came  not. 

When  he  got  well  enough  to  leave 
his  bed  the  largest  couch  was  sent  up 
to  him  from  the  saloon  :  a  kind  hand 
lined  the  baron's  silk  dressing-gown 
for  him  warm  and  soft  and  nice  :  and 
he  would  sit  or  lie  on  his  couch,  or 
take  two  turns  in  the  room  leaning 
upon  Laure's  shoulder,  and  glad  of 
the  support :   and   O,  he  looked   so 


162 


WHITE   LIES. 


pitcoiisly  in  licr  cj-cs  when  she  came, 
and  wlien  she  went.  Laurc  lowered 
her  eyes  before  them, — slie  could  do 
nothing,  — she  could  say  nothing. 

She  saw  that  with  liis  strength 
Camille  had  lost  a  portion  of  his 
pride :  that  he  pined  for  a  sight  of 
her  he  no  longer  respected  :  pined 
for  her,  —  as  the  thirsty  pine  for  wa- 
ter in  Zahara. 

At  last  one  day  he  spoke. 

"  How  kind  you  are  to  mc,  Laure  ! 
how  kind  you  all  are,  —  but  one." 

lie  waited  in  hopes  she  would  say 
something,  but  she  held  her  tongue. 

"  At  least  tell  me  why  it  is.  Is  she 
ashamed  1     Is  she  afraid  ;  " 

"  Neither." 

"  She  hates  mc  ?  it  is  then  true 
that  we  hate  those  whom  we  have 
wounded.      Cruel !    cruel  Josephine. 

0  heart  of  marble,  against  which 
my  heart  has  wrecked  itself  forev- 
er !  " 

"  Alas!  she  is  not  cruel,  — but  s!ie 
is  Madame  Raynal." 

"Ah!  — I  forgot!  But  have  I 
no  claim  on  her  ?  Nearly  four  years 
she  has  been  my  betrothed.  What 
have  I  done  ?  \Vas  I  ever  false  to 
her  ?  I  could  forgive  her  for  what 
she  has  done  to  me,  but  she  cannot 
forgive  me.  Does  she  mean  never  to 
see  me  again  ?  " 

"  What  good  could  come  of  it  ?  " 

"  Very  well,"  said  Camille,  with  a 
malicious  smile.     "  I  am  in  her  way. 

1  see  what  she  wants,  —  she  shall 
have  it." 

Laure  carried  these  words  to  Jo- 
sephine. They  went  through  her  hke 
a  sword. 

Laure  pitied  her. 

"Let  us  go  to  him.  Anything  is 
better  than  this." 

"  Laurc,  I  dare  not." 

The  next  day  early,  Josephine  took 
Lnurc  to  a  door  outside  the  house, 
a  door  that  had  long  been  disused. 
Nettles  grew  before  it.  She  produced 
a  key  and  with  great  difficulty  opened 
this  door. 

"  Ah,  it  is  a  good  many  years  since 
I  have  been   in  there,"  said   Laure. 


"  Why,  Josephine,  it  leads  to  the  tap. 
cstry  chamber." 

"Yes." 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  Watch  him  !  you  remember 
where  we  used  to  peep  through  into 
the  room." 

"  Yes  !  Ah,  how  happv  we  were 
then." 

"  Watch  him,  as  a  mother  does  her 
child.  0,  if  anything  happens  to  him 
while  he  is  under  my  care —  " 

"  Be  calm,  love,  do  not  fear,  I  will 
watch  him.  I  share  your  misgivings, 
your  fears,  I  share  all  with  you." 

"  My  sister  !  my  Laure  !  my  guar- 
dian angel !  oh,  if  I  had  not  you,  who 
know  what  a  miserable  woman  I  am, 
I  should  go  raving  mad  !  " 

When  Josephine  had  placed  Ca- 
mille under  this  strange  surveillance, 
she  felt  a  little,  a  very  little  easier,  she 
hardly  knew  why  ;  for  in  truth  it  was 
a  vague  protection  against  a  danger 
equally  mysterious.  So  great  was  Jo- 
sephine's forethought,  so  unflinching 
her  determination,  that  she  never  once 
could  be  prevailed  on  to  mount  those 
stairs,  and  peep  at  Camille  herself. 
"  I  must  starve  my  heart,  not  feed  it." 
And  she  grew  paler  and  more  hollow- 
eyed  day  by  day. 

Yet  this  was  the  same  woman  who 
showed  such  feebleness  and  irresolu- 
tion when  Raynal  pressed  her  to 
marry  him. 

But  then,  dwarfs  feebly  drew  her 
this  way  and  that.  Now  giants 
fought  for  her.  Between  a  feeble 
inclination  and  a  feeble  disinclination 
her  dead  heart  drifted  to  and  fro. 
Now  honor,  duty,  gratitude,  which 
with  her  Avas  a  passion,  dragged  her 
one  way,  —  love,  pity,  and  remorse 
another. 

Neither  of  these  giants  would  re- 
lax his  grasp,  and  nothing  yielded 
except  her  vital  pov/ers.  Yes  ;  her 
temper — the  loveliest  temper  Heav- 
en ever  gave  a  imman  creature  —  was 
soured  at  times. 

There  lay  the  man  she  loved  pin- 
ing for  her.  Cursing  her  for  her 
cruelty,  —  praying  Heaven  to  forgive 


WHITE   LIFS. 


1G3 


him  and  to  bless  her,  and  curse  him 
instead, — si<,'hinfj,  at  intervals,  all 
the  day  lony:  so  loud,  so  deep,  so 
pitcously,  as  if  his  heart  broke  with 
each  sij;h ;  and  sometimes,  for  he  lit- 
tle knew,  poor  soul,  that  any  human 
eye  was  upon  him,  casting  aside  his 
manhood  in  his  despair,  and  flinging 
himself  on  the  very  floor,  and  muf- 
fling his  head,  and  sobbing,  —  he  a 
hero. 

And  here  was  she  pining  in  secret 
for  him  who  pined  for  her.  "  I  am 
not  a  woman  at  all,"  cried  she,  who 
was  aU  woman.  "  I  am  crueller  to 
him  than  a  tiger  or  any  savage  crea- 
ture is  to  the  victim  she  tears.  I 
must  not  tempt  you.  To  love  me 
now  is  a  sin.  I  must  cure  you  of 
your  love  for  me,  and  then  die  :  for 
what  shall  I  have  to  live  for  1  He 
weeps,  he  sighs,  he  cries  for  Jose- 
phine ! " 

This  enforced  cruelty  was  more 
contrary  to  this  woman's  nature  as 
well  as  to  her  heart  than  black  is  to 
white,  or  heat  to  cold  ;  and  Nature 
rebelled  with  all  her  forces.  As 
when  a  rock  tries  to  stem  a  current, 
the  water  fights  its  way  on  more 
sides  than  one,  so  insulted  Nature 
dealt  with  Josephine.  Not  only  did 
her  body  pine,  but  her  nerves  were 
exasperated.  Sudden  twitches  came 
over  her,  that  almost  made  her 
scream.  Her  permanent  state  was 
utter  despondency ;  but  across  it 
came  fitful  flashes  of  irritation  ;  and 
then  she  was  scarce  mistress  of  her- 
self. 

Wherefore,  you  who  find  some 
holy  woman  cross  and  bitter,  stop  a 
moment  before  you  sum  her  up  vixen 
and  her  religion  naught :  inquire  the 
history  of  her  heart :  perchance,  be- 
neath the  smooth,  cold  curface  of  du- 
ties well  discharged,  her  life  has 
been,  or  even  is,  a  battle  against  some 
self-  indulgence  the  insignificant 
saint's  very  blood  cries  out  for :  and 
so  the  poor  thing  is  cross,  not  be- 
cause she  is  bad,  but  because  she 
is  better  than  the  rest  of  us,  —  yet 
human. 


As  for  Josephine's  little  bursts  of 
fretfulness,  they  were  always  followed 
bj'  disproportionate  penitence  and  pa- 
thetic eflbrts  to  be  so  very  kind  to 
tiiose  whom  she  had  scratched,  and 
then  felt  for  as  if  she  had  ploughed 
great  bleeding  furrows  in  them. 

Now,  though  she  was  more  on  her 
guard  with  the  baroness  than  with 
Laure,  or  the  doctor,  or  Jacintha,  her 
state  could  not  altogether  escape  the 
vigilance  of  a  mother's  eye. 

But  the  baroness  had  not  the  clew 
we  have. 

That  makes  all  the  difference : 
how  small  an  understanding  put  by 
accident  or  instruction  on  the  right 
track  shall  run  the  game  down  :  how 
great  a  sagacity  shall  wander  if  it 
gets  on  a  false  scent.* 

"  Doctor,  you  arc  so  taken  up  with 
your  patient,  you  neglect  the  rest  of 
us.  Do  look  at  Josephine  !  She  is 
ill!" 

"No,  madamc,  or  she  would  have 
told  me." 

"  Well,  then,  she  is  going  to  be  ill. 
She  is  so  pale,  and  so  fretful,  so  pee- 
vish, which  is  not  in  her  nature. 
Would  you  believe  it,  doctor,  she 
snaps  1  " 

"  Our  Josephine  snajj  ?  Tliis  is 
new." 

"  And  snarls  !  " 

"  Then  look  for  the  end  of  tlie 
world." 

"  The  other  day  I  heard  her  snap 
Laure ;  and  this  morning  she  half 
snarled  at  me,  just  because  I  pressed 
her  to  go  and  console  our  patient. 
Hush  !  here  she  is.  My  child,  I  am 
accusing  j'ou  to  monsieur  here.  I  am 
telling  him  you  neglect  his  patient." 

"  I,  mamma  ?  " 

"  You  never  go  near  him. 

"  I  will  visit  him  one  of  these  days," 
said  Josephine,  coldly. 

"  One  of  these  days,  my  daughter ! 
You  used  not  to  be  so  hard-hearted. 
A  soldier,  an   old   comrade  of  your 

*  Vide  all  authentic  records  of  man's  rea- 
sonings and  inventions  :  fur  climax  [ilunge 
from  Newton  reasoning  astronomy  down  to 
Newton  reasoning  alchemy 


IGt 


WHITE   LIES. 


/lusband's,  wounded  and  sick,  and 
you  alone  never  go  to  liini  to  console 
him  with  a  word  of  sympathy  or  en- 
couragement." 

Josephine  looked  at  her  mother 
with  a  sort  of  incredulous  stare. 

"  I  do  not  recognize  you.  You 
who  are  so  kind-hearted  and  pitiful, 
except  to  wounded  soldiers." 

Josephine  smiled  bitterly.  Then 
after  a  struggle  she  replied  with  a 
tone  and  manner  so  spiteful  and  icy 
that  it  would  have  deceived  even  us 
who  know  her,  had  wc  heard  it. 

"  He  has  plenty  of  nurses  without 
me,"  she  added,  almost  violently. 
"  My  husband,  if  he  were  wounded, 
would  not  have  so  many,  perhaps  not 
have  one." 

With  this  she  rose  and  went  out, 
leaving  them  aghast.  Slie  sat  down 
in  the  passage  on  a  window-seat,  and 
laughed  hysterically. 

Laure  heard  her  and  ran  to  her. 
Josephine  told  her  what  her  mother 
had  said  to  her.     Laure  soothed  her. 

"  Never  mind.  You  have  your 
sister  who  understands  you :  don't 
come  in  till  they  have  got  some  other 
topic." 

Laure  out  of  curiosity  went  in,  and 
found  a  discussion  going  on.  The  doc- 
tor was  fathoming  Josephine  for  the 
benefit  of  his  companion. 

"  It  is  a  female  jealousy  ;  and  of  a 
mighty  innocent  kind.  We  are  so 
occupied  with  this  poor  fellow,  she 
thinks  her  soldier  is  forgotten." 

"  Surely,  doctor,  our  Josephine 
would  not  be  so  unreasonable,  so 
unjust." 

"  She  belongs  to  a  sex,  be  it  said 
without  offending  you,  madame, 
among  whose  numberless  virtues 
justice  does  not  fill  a  prominent 
place." 

The  baroness  shook  her  head. 

"  That  is  not  it.  It  is  a  piece  of 
prudery.  This  young  gentleman 
was  a  sort  of  admirer  of  hers,  though 
she  did  not  admire  him  much,  as  far 
as  I  remember.  But  it  was  four 
years  ago  ;  and  she  is  married  to  a 
man  she  loves,  or  is  going  to  love." 


"  Well,  but,  mamma,  a  trifling  ex- 
cess of  delicacy  is  surely  excusable." 

"It  is  not  delicacy  :  it  is  prudery. 
And  when  people  are  sick  and  suf> 
fering,  an  honest  woman  should  take 
up  her  charity,  and  lay  down  her 
prudery  or  her  coquetry  :  two  things 
that  I  suspect  are  the  same  thing  in 
different  shapes." 

Here  Jacintha  came  in. 

"  Mademoiselle,  here  is  the  colo- 
nel's broth  :  Madame  Raynal  has  fla- 
vored it  for  him,  and  you  are  to  take 
it  up  to  him,  and  keep  him  company 
while  he  eats  it." 

"  Come,"  cried  the  baroness,  "  my 
lecture  has  not  been  lost." 

Laure  followed  Jacintha  up  stairs. 
Laure  was  heart  and  head  on  Ray- 
nal's  side. 

She  had  deceived  him  about  Jose- 
phine's attachment,  and  felt  all  the 
more  desirous  to  guard  him  against 
any  ill  consequences  of  it.  Then  he 
had  been  so  generous  to  her  ;  he  had 
left  her  her  sister,  who  would  have 
gone  to  Egypt,  and  escaped  this  mis- 
ery, but  for  her. 

But  on  the  other  hand,  if  I  may 
use  a  great  master's  words, 

"  Gentle  pity 
Tugged  at  her  heart-strings  with  eomplaiuiug 
cries." 

This  watching  of  Camille  made  her 
wretched.  When  she  was  with  him 
his  pride  bore  him  up  :  hut  when  he 
was  alone,  as  he  thought,  his  an- 
guish and  despair  were  terrible,  and 
broke  out  in  so  many  ways  that  often 
Laure  shrank  in  terror  from  her  peep- 
hole. 

She  dared  not  tell  Josephine  the 
half  of  wliat  she  saw :  what  she  did 
tell  her  agitated  her  so  terribly  ;  and 
often  Laure  had  it  on  the  tip  of  her 
tongue  to  say,  "  Do  pray  go  and 
see  if  you  can  say  nothing  that  will 
do  him  good "  :  but  she  fought  the 
impulse  down.  This  battle  of  feeling, 
though  less  severe  than  her  sister's, 
was  constant :  it  destroyed  her  gaye- 
ty.  She  whose  merry  laugh  used  to 
ring  like  chimes  tlirough  the  house 
never  laughed  now,  seldom   smiled, 


WHITE   LIES. 


165 


and  often  sighed.  The  elders  felt 
a  deep  gloom  settle  down  upon  the 
house. 

One  evening  the  baroness,  Jose- 
phine, and  ISt.  Aubin  sat  in  the  saloon, 
in  dead  silence. 

Doctor  St.  Aubin  had  been  the  last 
to  succumb  to  the  deep  depression, 
but  for  a  day  or  two  he  had  been  m 
grave  and  as  sad  as  the  rest. 

He  now  broke  silence. 

"  I  am  glad  Laure  is  out  of  the 
room,"  said  he,  thoughtfully  ;  "  I  wish 
to  consult  you  two." 

"  Wc  listen,  my  friend,"  said  the 
baroness,  with  interest. 

"  It  is  humiliating,  after  all  my  expe- 
rience, to  be  obliged  to  consult  unpro- 
fessional persons.  Forty  years  ago  I 
should  have  been  too  wise  to  do  so. 
But  since  then  I  have  often  seen 
science  baffled  and  untrained  intelli- 
gences throw  light  upon  hard  ques- 
tions ;  and  your  sex  in  particular  has 
luminous  instincts  and  reads  things 
by  flashes  that  we  men  miss  with  a 
microscope.  Our  dear  Madame  Ray- 
nal  read  that  notary,  and  to  this  day 
I  believe  she  could  not  tell  us 
how." 

"  I  know  very  well  how  I  read  him, 
dear  friend." 

"  How  1  " 

"  0,  I  can't  tell  how." 

"There  you  see.  Well,  then,  you 
must  help  me  in  this  case.  And  this 
time  I  promise  to  treat  your  art  with 
more  respect." 

"  And  who  is  it  she  is  to  read 
now  1  "  asked  the  baroness. 

Josephine  said  nothing,  but  trem- 
bled, and  was  secretly  but  keenly  on 
her  guard. 

"  Who  should  it  be  but  my  poor 
patient  ?  He  puzzles  me.  I  never 
knew  a  patient  so  faint-hearted." 

"  A  soldier  faint-hearted  !  "  ex- 
claimed the  baroness.  "  To  be  sure 
these  men  that  storm  cities  and  fire 
cannon,  and  cut  and  hack  one  an- 
other with  so  much  spirit,  are  poor 
creatui'es  compared  with  us  when 
they  have  to  he  quiet  and  suffer." 

"  Josephine."    said  the  doctor,  ab- 


;  she  will  tell  you 
all  he   has    gone 


ruptly,  "  do  you  know  Colonel  Dujar- 
diu's  character  ?  " 

"  No  !  yes  !  by  the  bulletins  of  the 
army,  — long  ago." 

"  Do  you  know  his  history  ?  " 

"  No,  — yes.  He  told  Laure  :  and 
she  told  me.  He  was  taken  prisoner 
in  Spain.  The  cowards  made  him 
suffer  tortures.  O  doctor !  he  is 
alive  by  a  miracle.  I  cannot  think 
that  Heaven  will  desert  him  now. 
Do  send  for  Laure  ; 
better  than  I  can 
through." 

"  No,"  said  St.  Aubin,  "you  mis- 
take mc.  That  is  not  what  I  want 
to  know.  It  is  not  the  past  but  the 
present  that  gives  me  so  much  con- 
cern. Past  dangers  are  present  de- 
lights." 

"  Doctor,  what  do  you  mean  1  " 

"  I  mean  this,  that  he  ought  to  get 
well,  and  does  not.  But  it  is  not  my 
fault :  no  man  can  be  cured  without  his 
own  help ;  and  he  will  not  put  a  finger 
to  the  work.  Patients  complain  of 
our  indifference  :  it  is  not  so  here  :  I 
am  all  anxiety  and  zeal,  and  my  sick 
man  is  his  own  by-stander  apathetic  as 
a  log." 

The  doctor  walked  the  room  in 
great  excitement. 

"  Ladies,  for  pity's  sake  help  me  : 
get  his  history  from  him,  and  tell  it 
me :  you,  Josephine,  with  your  in- 
stincts, do  for  pity's  sake  help  me  :  do 
throw  oft"  that  sublime  indifference  you 
have  manifested  all  along  to  this  man's 
fate." 

"  She  has  not !  "  cried  the  baroness, 
firing  up.  "  She  lined  his  dressing- 
gown  for  him  ;  and  she  inspects  every- 
thing that  he  eats  :  do  you  not  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  my  mother." 

"  Have  patience,  my  friend  :  time 
will  cure  your  patient,  and  time 
alone." 

"  Time  !  you  speak  as  if  time  was 
a  quality  :  time  is  only  a  measure  of 
events,  favorable  or  unfavorable  :  time 
kills  as  many  as  it  cures." 

"  Why,  doctor,  you  surely  would 
not  imply  his  life  is  in  any  dan- 
cer ?  " 


1G6 


WHITE   LIES. 


"  Should  I  be  sayinjj;'  all  this  if  it 
was  not  1  Must  I  speak  out  ?  Well, 
then,  I  will.  If  some  change  docs 
not  take  jjkicc  soon,  he  will  be  a  dead 
man  in  another  fortnight.  That  is  all 
time  will  do  for  him.     Now." 

The  baroness  uttered  an  exclama- 
tion of  pity  and  distress. 

Josephine  put  her  hand  to  her 
bosom,  and  a  creeping  horror  came 
over  her,  and  tlien  a  faintness.  Sud- 
denly she  rushed  from  the  room.  In 
the  passage  she  met  Laure  coming 
hastily  towards  the  salon,  laughing : 
the  first  time  she  had  lauglied  this 
many  a  day.  O  what  a  contrast 
between  the  two  faces  that  met  there, 
—  the  one  ])ale  and  horror-stricken, 
the  other  rosy  and  laughing  !  " 

"  Well,  dear,  at  last  I  am  paid  for 
all  my  troubl"".  I  have  found  my 
lord  out.  What  do  you  think  he 
does  ?     What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  —  tell  me  !  tell  me  !  " 
"  You  are  agitated,  Josephine. 
My  sister,  —  my  sweet  sister  !  What 
have  they  been  doing  to  you  now? 
You  want  my  story  first  1  Very 
well.  O,  the  doctor  would  be  in  a 
fine  rage  if  he  knew  it." 

"  The  doctor  ?  " 

"Yes!  it  is  soon  told.  Camillc 
never  takes  a  drop  of  his  medicine. 
He  pours  it  into  the  ashes  under  the 
grate.  I  saw  him.  I  caught  him  in 
the  act,  —  ha!  ha  !  " 

Josephine  stared  wildly  at  Laure 
to  hear  her  laugh. 

"  Ah  !  I  forgot :  you  don't  know  : 
come." 

"  Where  to  1  " 

"  To  him." 

Josephine  paused  on  the  first  land- 
ing. 

"  Promise  me  not  to  contradict  a 
word  I  shall  say  to  him.  I  must  hide 
my  heart  from  him  I  love,  — yes,  him 
I  love,  I  adore,  I  worship.  Ah  !  I 
have  got  you  to  whom  I  can  tell  the 
truth,  or  I  could  not  go  on  the  walk- 
ing lie  I  am.  I  love  him  :  I  adore  him  : 
I  will  deceive  him,  and  save  him,  and 
then  lie  down  and  die." 


"  Be  calm  !  pray  be  calm  !  "  said 
Laure.  "  O  that  he  had  never  been 
born  !  Say  what  you  will,  I  will  not 
speak.  Sliall  I  tell  him  you  are  com- 
ing  ?  " 

"No.  Let  me  have  every  advan- 
tage :  let  me  think  beforehand  every 
word  1  siiall  say  :  but  take  him  by 
surprise,  coward  and  double-face  that 
I  am." 

The  sisters  stood  at  the  door. 
Josephine's  Iieart  beat  audibly.  She 
knocked  :  a  faint  voice  said,  "  Come 
in."  She  and  Laure  entered  the 
room.  Camille  sat  on  the  sofa,  his 
head  bowed  over  his  liands.  A  glance 
showed  Josephine  that  he  was  dog- 
gedly and  resolutely  thrusting  him- 
self into  the  grave.  Thinking  it  was 
only  Laure,  for  he  had  now  lost  all 
hope  of  seeing  Josephine  come  in  at 
the  door,  he  never  moved.  Some 
one  glided  gently  but  rajjidly  up  to 
iiim. 

He  looked  up. 

Josephine  was  kneeling  to  him. 

He  lifted  his  head  with  a  start,  and 
trcmliled  all  over. 

"  Camillc,  I  am  come  to  you  to  beg 
your  pity,  to  appeal  to  your  gen- 
erosity, to  ask  a  favor,  —  I  who  de- 
serve so  little  of  you." 

"  You  have  waited  a  long  time," 
said  Camille,  agitated  greatly  ;  "  and 
so  have  I,"  he  added,  bitterly. 

"  Camillc,  you  are  killing  one  who 
loved  you  once,  and  who  has  been 
very  weak  and  faithless,  but  not  so 
wicked  as  she  appears." 

"  How  am  I  killing  you  ?  " 

"  With  remorse,  — to  sec  you  sink- 
ing into  the  tomb.  Camille,  is  this 
generous  of  you  ?  Do  I  not  sutler 
enough  ?  Would  you  make  me  a 
murderess  ?  " 

"  Then  Avhy  have  you  never  been 
near  me  ?  I  could  forgive  your 
weakness,  but  not  your  hcartless- 
ness." 

"  It  is  my  duty.  I  have  no  right 
to  seek  your  society.  If  you  really 
wanted  mine  you  would  get  well,  and 
so  join  us  down  stairs  a  week  or  two 
before  von  leave  us." 


WHITE  LIES. 


167 


"  How  am  1  to  get  well  ?  My  heart 
is  broken." 

"  Be  a  man,  Camille.  Do  not  fling 
away  a  soldier's  life  liccausc  a  fickle, 
worthless  woman  could  not  wait  lor 
you.  Forgive  like  a  man,  or  revenge 
yourself  like  a  man.  If  you  cannot 
forgive  me.  kill  me.  See,  I  kneel  at 
your  feet.  I  will  not  resist  you.  Kill 
me!" 

"  I  wish  I  could.  Oh  !  if  I  could 
kill  you  with  a  look  and  myself  with 
a  wish !  No  man  should  ever  take 
you  from  me  then.  We  would  be  to- 
gether in  the  grave  at  this  hour.  Do 
not  tempt  me,  I  say  !  " 

And  he  cast  a  terrible  look  of  love, 
and  hatred,  and  despair  upon  her. 

Her  purple  eye  never  winced :  it 
poured  back  tenderness  and  affection 
in  return. 

He  saw  and  turned  away  witli  a 
groan,  and  held  out  his  hand  to  her. 

She  seized  it  and  kissed  it.  "  You 
are  great,  you  are  generous  ;  you  will 
not  strike  me  as  a  woman  strikes,  — 
you  will  not  die  to  drive  me  to  de- 
spair." 

"  Ah  !  you  love  me  still !  " 

"No!  no!  no!  my  heart  is  dead. 
But  I  loved  you  once.  When  I  had 
a  right  to  love  you.  A  woman  can- 
not forget  all.  Can  you  ?  Yes  !  you 
can,  to  be  revenged  on  poor  silly 
Josephine." 

"  I  see  :  love  is  gone,  —  but  pity 
remains,  —  I  thought  that  was  gone 
too." 

"  Yes,  Camille,"  said  Josephine  in 
a  whisper;  "pity  remains,  and  re- 
morse and  terror  at  what  I  have  done 
to  a  man  of  whom  I  was  never 
Avorthy." 

"  Well,  madame,  as  you  have  come 
at  last  to  me,  and  even  do  me  tlic 
honor  to  ask  me  a  favor,  —  I  shall 
try — if  only  out  of  courtesy  —  lo  — 
ah,  Josepiiine  !  Josephine  !  when  did  I 
ever  refuse  you  anything  ?  " 

At  this  Josephine  sank  into  a  chair, 
and  burst  out  crying.  Camille,  at 
this,  began  to  cry  too  ;  and  the  two 
poor  things  sat  a  long  way  from  one 
another,  and  sobbed  bitterly. 


The  man,  weakened  as  he  was,  re- 
covered his  quiet  despair  first. 

"  Don't  cry  so,  my  poor  soul !  "  said 
he.  "  But  tell  me  what  is  your  will, 
and  I  shall  obey  you  as  I  used  before 
any  one  came  between  us  !  " 

''  Then  !  live,  Camille  !  I  implore 
you  to  live  !  " 

"  Well,  Josephine,  since  you  care 
about  it,  I  will  live." 

"  Since  I  care !  — oh  !  — bless  you, 
Camille.  How  good  you  are :  how 
generous  you  are.  You  have  prom- 
ised, —  you  keep  your  promises  :  you 
arc  not  like  me." 

"  Why  did  not  you  come  before  and 
ask  me?  I  thought  I  was  in  your 
way.  I  thought  you  wanted  me 
dead." 

Josephine  cast  a  look  of  wonder 
and  anguisli  on  Camille,  but  she  said 
nothing.  She  rang  the  bell,  and,  on 
Jacintha  coming  up,  she  despatched 
her  to  Doctor  St.  Aubin  for  the  pa- 
tient's medicine. 

"  Tell  the  doctor,"  said  she,  "  Colo- 
nel Dujardin  has  let  fall  the  glass." 

While  Jacintiia  was  gone,  she 
scolded  Camille  gently. 

"  How  could  you  be  so  unkind  to 
the  poor  doctor,  who  loves  you  so  ?  " 

"  What  have  I  done  to  him  1 "  asked 
Camille,  coloring. 

"  You  throw  away  his  medicines. 
Do  you  think  I  am  blind.  Look  at 
tlic  ashes ;  they  are  wet.  Camille, 
are  you  too  becoming  disingenuous  ?  " 

"  He  gives  me  tonics  tiiat  do  me 
too  much  good  ;  I  could  not  die  tpiick 
enough,  —  there,  forgive  me.  I  have 
promised  to  live,  —  1  will  live." 

Jacintha  came  in  with  the  tonic  in 
a  glass,  and  retired  with  an  obeisance. 

Josc])hinc  took  it  to  Camille. 

"  Drink  with  me,  then,"  said  he, 
"  or  I  will  not  touch  it." 

Josephine  took  the  glass. 

"I  drink  to  your  health,  Camille, 
and  to  your  glory  :  laurels  to  your 
brow,  my  hero  !  and  some  faithful 
woman  to  your  heart,  who  will  make 
you  forget  this  folly :  it  is  for  her  I 
save  you."  She  put  the  glass  with 
well-acted  spirit    to    her  lips  ;  but  in 


1G8 


WHITE  LIES. 


tlio  very  action  a  spasm  seized  her 
throat  and  almost  choked  her ;  she 
lowercrl  her  head  that  he  might  not 
see  her  face  and  tried  again  ;  but  the 
tears  burst  from  her  eyes  and  ran  into 
the  hquid,  and  her  lips  trembled  over 
the  brim,  and  could  n't. 

"  Ah  I  give  it  me,"  he  cried : 
"  there  is  a  tear  of  yours  in  it." 

He  drank  off  the  bitter  remedy  now 
as  if  it  had  been  nectar. 

Josephine  blushed. 

"  If  you  wanted  me  to  live,  why  did 
you  not  come  here  before  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  think  you  would  be  so 
foolish,  so  wicked,  so  cruel  as  to  do 
what  you  have  been  doing." 

"  Josephine,  come  and  shine  upon 
me  every  day,  and  you  shall  have  no 
fresh  cause  of  complaint  :  things 
flourish  in  the  sunshine  that  die  in 
the  dark :  Laure,  it  is  as  if  the 
sun  had  come  into  my  prison ;  you 
are  pale,  but  you  are  beautiful  as  ever, 
—  more  beautiful;  what  a  sweet 
dress  !  so  quiet,  so  modest,  it  sets  off 
your  beauty  instead  of  vainly  trying 
to  vie  with  it." 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  took  her 
gray  silk  dress  and  went  to  kiss  it  as 
a  devotee  kisses  tiie  altar  steps. 

She  snatched  it  furiously  away  with 
a  shudder. 

"  Yes,  you  are  right,"  said  she  ; 
"  thank  you  for  noticing  my  dress  :  it 
is  a  beautiful  dress,  —  ha!  ha!  A 
dress  I  takj  a  pride  in  wearing,  and 
always  shall,  I  hope.  I  mean  to  be 
buried  in  it.  Come,  Laure  !  Thank 
you,  Cami'ilc;  you  are  very  good,  you 
have  once  more  promised  me  to  live. 
Get  well ;  come  downstairs  ;  then  you 
will  see  me  every  day,  you  know,  — 
there  is  a  temptation.  Good  by,  Ca- 
mille  !  —  are  you  coming,  Laure '? 
What  are  you  loitering  fori  God 
bless  you,  and  comfort  you,  and  help 
you  to  forget  what  it  is  madness  to 
remember !  " 
She  was  gone. 

The  room  seemed  to  darken  to  Ca- 
mille. 

Outside  the  door  Josephine  caught 
hold  almost  fiercelv  of  Laure. 


"  Have  I  committed  myself?  " 
"  Over  and  over  again.  Do  not 
look  so  terrified  !  —  I  mean  to  me  : 
but  not  to  him.  Oh  !  wliat  a  fool  he 
is !  and  how  much  better  you  must 
know  him  than  I  do  to  venture 
on  such  a  transparent  deceit.  He  be- 
lieves whatever  you  tell  him.  He  is 
all  ears,  and  no  eyes.  Yes,  love,  I 
watched  him  keenly  all  the  time.  He 
really  thinks  it  is  pity  and  remorse ; 
nothing  more.  My  poor  sister,  you 
have  a  hard  life  to  lead,  —  a  hard  game 
to  play  :  but  so  far  you  have  succeed- 
ed :  you  could  look  poor  Raynal  in  the 
face  if  he  came  home  to-day." 

"Then  God  be  thanked,"  cried 
Josephine.  "  I  am  as  happy  to-day 
as  I  can  ever  hope  to  be.  Now  let 
us  go  through  the  farce  of  dressing  : 
it  is  near  dinner-time ;  and  then  the 
farce  of  talking,  and,  hardest  of  all,  the 
farce  of  living." 

From  that  hour,  Caraille  began  to 
get  better  very  slowly,  yet  percepti- 
bly. 

The  doctor,  afraid  of  being  mista- 
ken, said  nothing  for  some  days,  but  at 
last  he  annoimced  the  good  news  at 
tlie  dinner-table.  It  was  no  news  to 
either  of  the  sisters.  Laure  had 
watched  every  symptom,  and  had  told 
Josephine.  "  He  is  to  come  down 
stairs  in  three  days,"  added  the  doc- 
tor. 

The  baroness.  "  Thank  heaven  ! 
and,  now  that  anxiety  is  removed,  I  do 
hope  you  will  have  time  to  cure  her 
who  is  dearer  to  us  than  all  the 
world." 

Josephine.  "  My  mother :  there  is 
nothing  the  matter  with  me." 

Baroness.  "  Then  why  do  you  an- 
swer ■?     I  mentioned  nobody." 

Josephine  was  confused  :  the  doctor 
smiled;  but  he  said,  kindly:  "In- 
deed, you  look  pale,  and  somewhat 
thinner." 

Baroness.  "  Thinner  ?  What  won- 
der, when  she  eats  nothingi  " 

St.  Aubin.  "  Is  this  true  'i  Do  you 
eat  nothing  1  " 

Josephine.  "  I  eat  as  much  as  I 
require.     I  iiave  often  heard  you  say 


WHITE   LIES. 


169 


we  should  eat  no  more  tlian  wc  can 
relish." 

St.  Aubin.  "  She  is  right.  Per- 
liaps  we  dine  too  early  for  you.  I  ob- 
serve you  don't  seem  to  enjoy  your 
dinner." 

Josephine.    "  Enjoy  —  my  dinner  1 " 

Sf.  Aubin.  "  Why  not '?  You  arc 
not  an  angel  in  body,  though  3'ou  are 
in  mind  ;  and  if  you  don't  enjoy  your 
dinner,  there  is  something  wrong. 
However,  perhaps  Jacintha  does  not 
give  us  the  dishes  you  like." 

Josephine.  "  No !  no  !  it  is  not 
that.  All  dishes  taste  like  one  to 
me." 

St.  Aubin.  "  What  do  they  taste 
like  1  " 

Josephine.  "  Like  ?  —  like  all  the 
same,  —  quite  tasteless.  Don't  tease 
me.     What  does  it  matter  ?  " 

Bujvness.  "  There,  doctor,  there  : 
see  how  fretful  the  poor  child  is  get- 
ting." 

St.  Aubin.  "I  see,  madame,  and 
divine  the  cause.  Now,  Madame  Ray- 
nal,  let  us  be  serious.  I  understand 
you  to  say,  that  a  slice  of  this  mut- 
ton, or  of  that  chicken,  taste  the  same 
to  you  :  or,  to  speak  more  correctly, 
have  no  taste  1  " 

Josephine.     "  None  whatever." 

St.  Aubin.     "  Bile  !  !  !  !  !  " 

Camille,  bribed  by  the  hope  of  see- 
ing Josephine  every  day,  turned  his 
mind  seriously  towards  getting  well  ; 
and,  as  his  disorder  had  been  lethargy, 
not  disease,  he  improved  visibly. 
But,  as  his  body  strengthened,  some 
of  the  worst  passions  in  our  nature  at- 
tacked him. 

Fierce  gusts  of  hate  and  love  com- 
bined overpowered  this  man's  high 
sentiments  of  honor  and  justice,  and 
made  him  clench  his  teeth,  and  vow 
never  to  leave  Beaurepaire  without 
Josephine.  She  had  been  his  four 
years  before  she  ever  saw  Raynal,  and 
she  should  be  his  forever.  Her  love 
would  soon  revive  when  they  should 
meet  every  day,  and  — 

Then  conscience  pricked  him,  and 
reminded  him  how  and  why  Ravnal 
8 


had  married  her  :  for  Laure  liad  told 
liini  all.  Should  he  undermine  an  ab- 
sent soldier,  wiiose  whole  conduct  in 
this  had  been  so  pure,  so  generous, 
so  unselfish '? 

But  this  was  not  all. 

Strange  to  say,  he  was  under  a  great 
personal  obligation  to  his  quondiim 
comrade  Kaynal,  of  which  more  by 
and  by. 

Whenever  this  was  vividly  present 
to  liis  mind,  a  great  terror  fell  on  him, 
and  he  would  cry  out  in  anguish  : 
"  Oh  that  some  angel  would  come  to 
me  and  tear  me  by  force  from  this 
place !  " 

And  the  next  moment  passion 
swept  over  him  like  a  flood,  and  carried 
away  all  his  virtuous  resolves.  His 
soul  was  in  deep  waters  ;  great  waves 
drove  it  to  and  fro.  Perilous  con- 
dition, which  seldom  ends  well. 

Camille  was  a  man  in  whom  honor 
sat  throned. 

In  no  other  earthly  circumstance 
could  he  have  hesitated  an  instant  be- 
tween right  and  wrong.  But  such 
natures,  proof  against  all  other  temp- 
tations, have  often  fallen,  and  will 
fall,  where  sin  takes  the  angel  form  of 
her  they  love.  Yet,  of  all  men,  they 
should  pray  for  help  to  stand  :  for, 
fallen,  they  still  retain  one  thing  that 
divides  tliem  from  mean  sinners. 

Remorse,  —  the  giant  that  rends  the 
great  hearts  that  mock  at  fear. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

The  day  came  in  which  the  doctor 
had  promised  his  patient  he  should 
come  down  stairs.  First  his  comfort- 
able sofa  was  taken  down  into  the 
saloon  for  his  use  :  then  the  patient 
himself  came  down  leaning  on  the 
doctor's  arm,  and  his  heart  palpitating 
at  the  thought  of  the  meeting.  He 
came  into  the  room :  the  baroness 
was  alone.  She  greeted  him  kindly, 
and  welcomed  him.  Laure  came  in 
soon  after  and  did  tlio  same.  But  no 
Josephine.     Camille  felt  sick  at  heart. 


170 


WHITE  LIES. 


At  last  dinner  was  announced.  "  She 
will  surely  join  us  at  dinner,"  thought 
he.  He  cast  his  eyes  anxiously  on 
the  table :  the  napkins  were  laid 
for  four  only.  The  baroness  care- 
lessly explained  this  to  him  as  they 
sat  down. 

"  Madame  Raynal  dines  in  her  own 
room.  I  am  sorry  to  say  she  is  in- 
disposed." 

Camille  muttered  polite  regrets : 
the  rage  of  disappointment  drove  its 
fangs  into  him,  and  then  came  the 
hollow  aching  of  hope  deferred.  The 
next  day  he  saw  her,  but  could  not 
get  a  word  with  her  alone.  The  bar- 
oness tortured  him  another  way.  She 
was  full  of  Kaynal.  She  loved  him. 
She  called  him  her  son :  was  never 
weary  of  descanting  on  his  virtues  to 
Camille.  Not  a  day  passed  that  she 
did  not  pester  Camille  to  make  a  cal- 
culation as  to  the  probable  period  of 
his  return ;  and  he  was  obliged  to  an- 
swer her.  She  related  to  him,  before 
Josephine  and  Laurc,  how  this  honest 
soldier  had  come  to  them  like  a  guar- 
dian angel  and  saved  the  whole  family. 
In  vain  he  muttered  that  Laure  had 
told  him. 

"  Let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  tell- 
ing it  you  my  way,"  cried  she,  and 
told  it  diffusely. 

The  next  thing  was,  Josephine  had 
received  no  letter  from  him  this 
month,  —  the  first  month  he  had 
missed.  In  vain  did  Laure  represent 
that  he  was  only  a  few  days  over  his 
time.  The  baroness  became  anxious, 
communicated  her  anxieties  to  Ca- 
mille among  the  rest,  and  by  a  tortur- 
ing interrogatory  compelled  him  to 
explain  to  her  before  them  all  that 
ships  do  not  always  sail  to  a  day,  and 
are  sometimes  delayed.  But  oh  !  he 
writhed  at  the  man's  name ;  and 
Laure  observed  that  he  never  men- 
tioned it,  nor  acknowledged  the  ex- 
istence of  such  a  person  as  Jose- 
phine's husband,  except  when  others 
compelled  him.  Yet  they  were  ac- 
quainted, and  Laure  wondered  that 
he  did  not  sometimes  detract  or 
sneer. 


"  I  should,"  said  she,  "  I  know  I 
should." 

"He  is  too  noble,"  said  Josephine, 
"  and  too  wise.  If  he  did,  I  should 
respect  him  less,  and  my  husband 
more,  —  if  possible." 

Certainly  Camille  was  not  the  sort 
of  nature  that  detracts ;  but  the  rea- 
son he  avoided  Raynal's  name  was 
simply  that  his  whole  battle  was  to 
forget  such  a  man  existed.  From 
this  dream  he  was  rudely  awakened 
every  hour  since  he  joined  the  family, 
and  the  wound  his  self-deceiving 
heart  would  fain  liave  skinned  over 
was  torn  open.  But  worse  than  this 
was  the  torture  of  being  tantalized. 
He  was  in  company  with  Josephine, 
but  never  alone.  Even  if  she  left  the 
room  for  an  instant,  Laure  accom- 
panied her  and  returned  with  her. 
Camille  at  last  began  to  comprehend 
that  Josephine  had  decided  there 
should  be  no  private  interviews  be- 
tween her  and  him.  Thus  not  only 
the  shadow  of  the  absent  Raynal 
stood  between  them,  but  her  mother 
and  sister  in  person,  and,  worst  of  all, 
her  own  will. 

"  Cold-blooded  fiend,"  he  cried  in 
his  rage,  "  you  never  loved  me ;  you 
never  will  really  love  any  one." 

Then  the  thought  of  all  her  tender- 
ness and  goodness  came  to  rebuke 
him.  But,  even  in  rebuking,  it  mad- 
dened him.  "  Yes !  it  is  her  very 
nature  to  love ;  but,  since  she  can 
make  her  heart  turn  whichever  way. 
her  honor  bids,  she  will  love  her 
husband.  She  docs  not  now ;  but 
sooner  or  later  she  will,  —  then  she 
will  have  children.  He  writhed  with 
anguish  and  fury  at  this  thought,  — 
loving  ties  between  him  and  her.  He 
has  everything  on  his  side  ;  I,  nothing 
but  memories  she  will  efface  from  her 
heart.  Will  efface  ?  She  must  have 
effaced  them,  or  she  could  not  have 
married  him."  He  rose  and  went  out 
into  the  Pleasance.  He  felt  as  if  all 
must  sec  the  frightful  tempest  in  his 
heart.  He  went  into  the  Park,  and 
wandered  wildly.  He  was  in  that 
state  in  which  men  commit  acts  tliat 


WHITE   LIES. 


171 


the  next  moment  they  look  back  on 
with  wonder  as  well  as  horror. 

He  wandered  and  wandered  by  the 
fide  of  the  brook,  and  at  each  turn 
where  the  stajrnant  current  showed  a 
deeper  pool  than  usual  he  stopped 
and  looked,  and  thouirlit,  "  How  calm 
and  peaceful  you  are  !  " 

He  sat  down  at  last  by  the  water- 
side, his  eyes  bent  on  a  calm  green 
pool. 

"  ^ou  are  very  calm  and  peaceful, 
and  you  could  give  me  your  peace. 
No  more  rnge,  —  no  more  jealousy,  — 
no  more  despair.  It  is  a  sordid  death 
for  a  soldier  to  die  who  has  seen  great 
battles.  When  I  was  a  boy,  —  ah  ! 
why  cannot  I  be  a  boy  again  ?  — 
then  I  read  of  a  Spartan  soldier  that 
was  on  a  sinking  ship.  There  was 
no  hope,  — no  more  there  is  for  me. 
lie  drew  his  sword  and  fell  on  it  ere 
the  ship  could  sink.  I  can  understand 
that  man's  heart.  I  am  of  his  mind. 
Still  we  must  do  the  best  we  can. 
Ah  !  what  is  this  ?  my  pistols.  The 
pi'csent  my  old  comrades  sent  me 
wliilc  I  lay  between  life  and  death. 
AVhy  did  not  I  die  then  1 

"  No  matter  :  I  am  glad  I  have  got 
my  pistols.  How  strange  I  should 
put  them  away  into  this  coat,  and  put 
the  coat  on  without  knowing  it.  All 
these  things  arc  preordained. 

"  To  go  without  a  word  with  her, 
—  a  parting  word.  No  !  it  is  best  so. 
For  I  should  have  taken  her  with  me." 

"Sir!  colonel!"  uttered  a  harsh, 
dry  voice  behind  him. 

Camille  started. 

Absorbed  and  strung  up  to  despera- 
tion as  he  was,  this  voice  seemed 
unnaturally  loud,  and  discordant  with 
his  mood ;  a  sudden  trumpet  from 
the  world  of  small  things. 

Picard  the  notary  stood  behind 
him. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  Madame 
Raynal  is  1 " 

"  No.     At  the  chateau,  I  suppose." 

"  She  is  not  there  :  I  inquired  of 
the  servant.  She  was  out.  You 
have  not  seen  her,  colonel  "i  " 

"U  no." 


"  Then  perhaps  I  had  better  go 
back  to  the  chateau  and  wait  for  lier : 
stay,  j'ou  are  a  friend  of  the  family. 
Colonel,  suppose  I  were  to  tell  you, 
and  ask  you  to  tell  Madame  llaynal, 
or  better  still  to  tell  the  baroness,  or 
Mademoiselle  Laure." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Camille,  coldly, 
"  charge  me  with  no  messages,  for  I 
shall  not  deliver  them.  I  am  going 
another  way." 

"  In  that  case,  monsieur,  I  will  go 
to  the  chateau  once  more." 

"Go!" 

Picard  went,  wondering  at  the  col- 
onel's strange  manner. 

Camille  wondered  that  any  one 
could  be  so  mad  as  to  talk  to  him 
about  trifles,  — to  him  a  man  standing 
on  the  brink  of  eternity.  Poor  soul, 
it  was  he  wlio  was  mad  and  unlucky. 
He  should  have  heard  what  Picard 
had  to  say.  Notaries  are  not  embar- 
rassed, and  hesitating  to  whom  to 
speak,  for  nothing. 

He  watched  Picard's  retiring  form. 
When  he  was  out  of  sight  then  he 
turned  round  and  resumed  his  thouglits 
as  if  Picard  had  been  no  more  than  a 
fly  that  had  buzzed  and  then  gone. 

"  Yes ;  I  should  have  taken  her 
with  me."  He  sat  gloomy  and 
dogged  like  a  dangerous  maniac  in 
his  cell :  never  moved,  scarce  thought 
for  more  than  half  an  hour :  but  his 
deadly  purpose  grew  in  him.  Sud- 
denly he  started,  a  lady  was  at  the 
stile,  about  a  hundred  yards  distant. 
He  tremliled.     It  was  Josej)hinc. 

She  came  towards  him  slowly,  her 
eyes  bent  on  the  ground  in  a  deep 
revery.  She  stopped  about  a  stone's 
throw  from  him,  and  looked  at  the 
river  long  and  thoughtfully  :  then  cast- 
ing her  eyes  around  she  caugiit  siixht 
of  Camille.  He  watched  her  grimly. 
lie  saw  her  give  a  little  start,  and 
half  turn  round ;  but  if  this  was  an 
impulse  to  retreat,  it  was  instantly 
suppressed  :  for  the  next  moment  she 
])ursucd  her  way. 

Camille  stood  gloomy  and  bitter, 
awaiting  her  in  silence.  He  planted 
himsflf  in  the  middle  of  the  path. 


172 


wmri;  liks. 


She  looked  him  all  over,  nnd  her 
Color  e.iinc  nii'l  went. 

'•Out  so  r.u  as  tiii<,  CiUiiille,"  she 
saiil,  kindly.  "  Well  done,  hut  where 
i.i  your  caj)  ?  " 

lie  put  his  hand  to  liis  head,  nnd 
diseovered  that  he  was  harcheaded. 

"  You  will  eateh  your  death  of 
cold.  Come,  let  us  go  in  and  get 
your  eap." 

8hc  made  ns  if  she  would  pass  him. 
He  planted  himself  right  before  her. 

"  No." 

"  Monsieur !  " 

"  You  shun  me." 

"  No,  I  do  not  shun  you,  Camille.'' 

"  You  shun  me." 

"  I  have  avoided  conferences  that 
can  lead  to  no  good  ;  it  is  my  duty." 

"  You  are  very  wise  :  cold-hearted 
people  can  he  wise." 

"  Am  I  cold-hearted,  Camille  ?  " 

"  As  marble." 

She  looked  him  in  the  face ;  the 
water  came  into  her  eyes  :  after  a 
while  she  whispered  :  — 

"  Well,  Camille,  I  am." 

"  But,  with  all  your  wisdom  and 
nil  your  coldness,  you  have  made  a 
mistake  :  you  Jiave  driven  me  to  de- 
sjair." 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  " 

"  Your  prayer  comes  too  late  ;  you 
have  done  it." 

"  Camille,  let  mc  go  to^  the  ora- 
tory and  pray  for  vou.  You  terrify 
me"." 

"  Useless.  Heaven  has  no  mercy 
for  me.  Take  my  advice,  stay  where 
you  are,  —  don't  hurry,  —  since  what 
remains  of  your  life  you  are  to  i)ass 
with  me,  —  do  vou  understand 
that  ?  " 

"Ah!" 

"  Can  you  read  my  riddle  ?  " 

"  I  can  read  your  eyes,  and  I 
know  you  love  mc.  I  think  you 
mean  to  kill  me.  Men  kill  the  thing 
they  love." 

"  Ay  !  sooner  than  another  should 
have  it,  they  kill  it,  — they  kill  it !  " 

"  God  has  not  made  them  patient 
like  us  women,  —  poor  Camille  !  " 

"  Patience   dies   when   hope    dies. 


Come,  Madame  Rnynal.  say  a  prayer, 
for  you  an-  going  to  die." 

"  (i(j(l  bless  you,  Camille!"  said 
the  ])oor  gill,  putting  her  hands  to- 
gether, 

Camille  hung  his  head,  then,  lashing 
himself  into  lury,  he  crie<l  :  — 

"  You  are  my  betrothed,  you  talk 
of  duty,  —  but  you  forget  your  duty 
I  to  me.  Are  you  not  my  iK'troihed 
this  four  vears  ?     Answer  me  that." 

"  Yes,  Camille." 

"  Did  I  not  suffer  death  a  hundred 
times  for  you,  to  keep  faith  with  you, 
you  cold-blooded  traitress  with  an 
angel's  face." 

"O  Camille,  why  do  you  speak  so 
bitterly  to  me  f  Have  1  denied  your 
right  to  kill  me  >.  You  shall  never 
dishonor  me,  but  you  shall  kill  me, 
if  it  is  your  pleasure.  I  do  not  re- 
sist. VVhy  then  speak  to  mc  like 
that,  —  must  the  last  words  I  hear 
from  your  mouth  be  words  of  anger, 
cruel  Camille  '.  " 

"  I  was  wrong.  But  it  is  hard  to 
kill  her  I  love  in  cold  blood.  1  want 
anger  as  well  as  despair  to  keep  me 
to  it ;  well,  turn  your  head  away 
from  me." 

"  O  no,  Camille,  let  mc  look  at 
you.  Then  you  will  be  the  last  thing 
I  shall  see  on  earth." 

He  hesitated  a  moment  :  then,  with 
a  fierce  stamp  at  his  own  weakness, 
he  levelled  a  pistol  at  her. 

She  put  up  her  hands,  with  a  ]»it- 
eous  cry :  — 

"  O,  not  my  face,  Camille !  pray 
do  not  disfigure  my  face  !  Here,  — 
kill  me  here, — in  my  bosom,  —  my 
heart  that  loved  you  well,  when  it 
w;is  no  sin  to  love  you." 

"  I  can't  shoot  you.  I  can't  spill 
voiir  blood,  Josephine." 

"  Poor  Camille  !  " 

"  This  will  end  all,  and  not  dis- 
figure your  beauty,  that  has  driven 
me  mad,  and  cost  you,  poor  wretch, 
your  life." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Camille.  The 
water  does  not  frighten  me  as  a  pis- 
tol does, —  it  will  not  hurt  me,  —  it 
will  onlv  kill  me." 


WHITE   LIES. 


173 


*'  No,  it  is  but  a  plunge,  and  you 
will  be  at  peace  forever,  —  ami  so 
shall  I.  Come.  Take  my  hand, 
Madame  Raynal,  —  Madame  Raynal, 
—  Madame  Raynal !  " 

"  What,  you  too  1  "  and  she  drew 
back.  "  0  Camille,  my  poor  moth- 
er !  and  Laure,  who  loves  me  so  !  " 

"  Ah  !  I  forgot  them." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  tiien  sud- 
denly shrieked  out  :  — 

"  Fly,  Josephine,  fly  !  escape  this 
moment,  that  my  better  angel  whis- 
pers to  me.  Do  you  hear  ?  begone, 
while  it  is  time." 

"  I  will  not  leave  you,  Camille." 

"  I  say  you  sliall.  Go  to  your 
mother  and  Laure,  —  go  to  those  you 
love,  and  I  can  bear  you  to  love.  Go 
to  tiie  chapel,  and  thank  Heaven  for 
your  escape." 

"  I  will  not  go  witliout  you,  Ca- 
mille.    I  am  afraid  to  leave  you." 

"  You  have  more  to  fear  if  yon 
stay. 

"  Well,  I  can't  wait  any  longer. 
Stay,  then,  and  learn  from  me  how  to 
love." 

lie  levelled  tlie  pistol  at  himself. 
■  Josephine  threw  herself  on  him  with 
a  cry,  and  seized  his  arm.  They 
struggled  ficrcel}^  It  was  not  till 
after  a  long  and  mighty  ctfort  that  he 
threw  her  off.  But  he  did  throw  her 
off,  and  i-aised  the  pistol  rapidly  to 
take  his  life. 

But  this  time,  ere  the  deadly  weap- 
on could  take  effect,  she  palsied  his 
suicidal  hand  with  a  word  :  — 

"  No  !    I  LOVE  YOU  1  " 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

There  lie  the  dead  corpses  of  those 
words  on  paper  ;  but  O,  my  art  is 
powerless  to  tell  you  how  they  were 
uttered,  —  those  words,  potent  as  a 
king's,  that  saved  a  life. 

They  were  a  cry  of  terror  ! 

They  were  a  cry  of  reproach  ! 

They  were  a  cry  of  love  unfathom- 
able ! 


The  weapon  shook  in  his  hand, 
lie  looked  at  her  with  growing  aston- 
ishment and  joy. 

She  looked  at  him  fixedly  and  anx- 
iously^, her  hands  clasped  in  supplica- 
tion. 

"  Not  as  you  used  to  love  me  !  " 

"  More,  far  more.  Give  me  the 
pistol.  1  love  you,  dearest !  I  love 
you  ! " 

At  these  delicious  words  he  lost  all 
power  of  resistance  ;  her  soft  and  sup- 
ple hand  closed  upon  his,  and  gently 
withdrew  the  weapon  and  threw  it 
into  the  water.  "  Good,  Camille  !  — 
now  give  me  the  other." 

"  How  do  you  know  there  is  anoth- 
er ?  " 

"  You  love  me,  Camille,  —  you 
never  meant  to  kill  me  and  spare 
yourself,  —  come." 

"  Josephine,  I  am  so  unhappy,  —  do 
not  deceive  me,  —  pray  do  not  take 
this  one  from  me,  unless  you  really 
love  me." 

"  I  love  you,  —  I  adore  you  !  " 

She  leaned  her  head  on  his  shoul- 
der, but  with  her  hand  she  sought  his, 
and  even  as  she  uttered  those  loving 
words  she  coaxed  the  weapon  from  his 
now  unresisting  grasp. 

"  There,  it  is  gone,  you  are  saved 
from  death,  — saved  from  M'orse,  from 
crime."  The  danger  over,  she  trem- 
bled for  the  first  time,  and  sobbed  hys- 
terieall}'. 

He  fell  at  her  knees,  and  embraced 
them  again  and  again,  and  begged  her 
forgiveness  in  a  transport  of  remorse 
and  self-reproach. 

She  looked  down  with  tender  pity 
on  him,  and  heard  his  cries  of  peni- 
tence and  shame. 

"  I  think  only  of  what  you  have  to 
suffer  now." 

"  Let  it  come  !  it  will  fall  light  on 
me  now.  I  thought  I  liad  lost  your 
love." 

"  No,  it  will  not  fall  light  on  you 
nor  on  me.  Rise,  Camille,  and  go 
home  with  nie,"  said  she,  faintly. 

"  Yes,  Josephine." 

They  went  slowly  and  in  silein^e. 
Camilie   was  too  ashamed  and  peai- 


171 


WIUTI-:   LlliS. 


tent  to  (sponk,  — too  full  of  terror,  too, 
at  tlif  iiliv.vs  of  crime  iVoiii  wliirh  Ik- 
Intel  l>cfii  saved.  Tiic  aiieieiits  fei;,'iu;i| 
tiiat  u  virgin  could  sulidue  a  lion ; 
(hey  meant  l)y  tliis  that  ii  i)ure  f^entle 
nature  can  subdue  a  nature  (ieree  liut 
j,'enerous.  Lion-like,  Caniille  walked 
by  Josephine's  side  with  his  eyes  Im'iU 
on  I  lie  ^^round,  a  |)icturc  of  iiuniility 
and  penitence. 

"  C-'amiile,  this  is  the  hist  walk  you 
an<l  I  shall  take  together." 

"  I  know  it.  1  have  forfeited  all 
rijjht  to  be  hy  your  side." 

"  My  poor  friend,  will  you  never  un- 
derstatitl  me  '.  You  never  stood  higher 
in  my  esteem  than  at  tiiis  moment. 
It  is  the  avowal  you  have  forced  from 
me  that  parts  us.  The  man  to  whom 
I  have  said,  'I  — '  must  not  remain 
beneath  my  husband's  roof.  Does 
not  vour  sense  of  honor  agree  witli 


mine 


It 


"  Josephine,"  faltered  Camille, 
does." 

"  To-morrow  you  must  leave  the 
chateau." 

"  Must  I,  Josephine  ?  " 

"  What,  you  do  not  resist,  you  do 
not  break  my  heart  by  complaints,  by 
reproaches  t  V 

"  No,  Josephine,  —  all  is  changed. 
I  thought  you  unfeeling:  I  thought 
you  were  going  to  be  li'ipp'J  with  him, 
—  that  was  wliat  maddened  me." 

"  Camille,  I  pray  daily  you  may  be 
happy,  no  matter  how.  But  you  and 
I  are  not  alike,  dear  as  we  are  to  one 
another.  Well,  do  not  fear:  I  shall 
never  be  happv, — will  that  soothe 
you,  Camille  * '"' 

"  Yes,  Josephine,  all  is  changed,  the 
words  you  have  s])oken  have  driven 
the  fiends  out  of  my  heart.  I  have 
nothing  to  do  now  but  to  obey,  you  to 
command, — it  is  your  right.  Since 
you  love  me,  dispose  of  me.  Bid  me 
live  :  bid  me  die  :  bid  me  stay  :  bid 
me  go.  I  shall  never  disobey  the  an- 
gel who  loves  me,  —  my  only  friend 
upon  the  earth." 

A  single  deep  sob  from  Jose])hinc 
was  nil  the  answer. 

"  Why  did  you  not  trust  me,  be- 


loved one  ?  Why  did  you  not  say  to 
me  long  ago,  '  1  love  you,  but  I  am 
a  wife  ;  my  husb.'ind  is  an  honest  8ol- 
ilier,  ali-^ent,  and  lighting  for  1'" ranee  : 
I  am  the  guardian  of  his  honor  and 
my  own  :  Ihj  just,  be  generous,  be 
self-denying  ;  de])art  and  love  mc  only 
as  angels  love '  '.  You  gave  me  no 
chance  of  showing  that  1  too  um  a 
pers(jn  of  honor." 

"  I  was  wrong,  Camille.  I  think  1 
should  have  trusted  more  to  you. 
But  who  would  have  thought  you 
could  really  doubt  my  love  '.  Vou 
were  ill :  1  could  not  bear  you  to  go 
till  you  were  well,  (juite  well.  I  saw 
no  other  way  to  keep  you  hut  this, 
to  treat  you  with  feigned  coldness. 
You  saw  the  c<jldness,  but  not  what 
it  cost  me  to  maintain  it.  Yes,  I  was 
unjust  and  inconsiderate,  for  I  had 
many  furtive  joys  to  sustain  mc  :  I 
had  you  in  my  house  under  my  care, 
—  that  thought  was  always  sweet, —  I 
had  a  hand  in  everything  that  was 
for  your  good,  your  comfort.  I  helped 
J.ieintha  make  your  soup  ami  your 
chocolate  every  day.  I  lined  your 
dressing-gown  :  I  had  always  some 
little  thing  or  other  to  do  for  you. 
These  kept  me  up :  I  forgot  in  my 
selfishness  that  you  had  none  of  these 
supports,  and  that  I  was  driving  you 
U>  despair.  1  am  a  foolish,  ilisingen- 
uous  woman  :  I  have  been  very  culpa- 
ble.    Forgive  mc ! " 

"  Forgive  you,  angel  of  purity  and 
goodness  ?  I  am  alone  to  blame. 
What  right  had  I  to  doubt  your 
heart  ?  I  knew  th'^  whole  story  of 
your  marriage,  —  I  saw  your  sweet 
jiale  face,  —  but  I  wa.s  not  pure  enough 
to  comprehend  angelic  virtue  anil  un- 
selfishness. Well,  I  am  brought  to 
my  senses.  God  has  been  very  good  to 
mc  this  day.  lie  has  saved  me  from  — 
there  is  but  one  thing  for  me  to  do,  — 
you  liade  mc  leave  you  to-morrow." 

"  I  was  very  cruel." 

" No  !  not  cruel ;  wise.  But  I  will 
be  wi.ser.     I  shall  iro  to-night." 

"  To-night,  Camille  ?  "  cried  Jose- 
phine, turning  pale. 

"  Av  !  for  to-night  I  am  strong,— 


WHITE  LIES. 


175 


to-moiTOw  1  may  be  weak.  To-night 
eventliin^  thrusts  mo  on  the  right 
path.  To-morrow  everything  will 
draw  me  from  it.  Do  not  cry,  beloved 
one,  —  you  and  I  have  a  hard  fight : 
we  must  be  true  allies :  whenever 
one  is  weak,  then  is  the  time  for  the 
other  to  be  strong.  I  have  been 
weaker  than  you,  to  my  shame  be  it 
said  :  but  this  is  my  hour  of  strength. 
A  light  from  heaven  shows  me  mv 
path.  I  am  full  of  passion,  hut,  like 
you,  I  have  honor.  You  are  Raynal's 
wife,  —  and  —  liaynal  saved  my  life." 

"  Ah  !  is  it  possible  ?  AVhen  1 
where  ■?  —  may  Heaven  bless  him  for 
it !  " 

"  So  you  see  you  were  right,  — 
this  is  no  place  for  one  so  little  master 
of  himself  as  I  am.  I  shall  go  to- 
uight." 

"It  is  so  late,  —  too  late  to  get  a 
conveyance." 

"I  need  none  to  carry  my  sword, 
my  epaulets,  and  my  love  ior  you. 
I  shall  go  on  foot." 

Josephine  raised  no  more  objec- 
tions :  she  walked  slower  and  slower. 

"  Thank  you,  beloved  one,"  said 
Camille.  And  so  the  unfortunate  pair 
came  along  creeping  slowly  with 
drooping  heads  towards  the  gate  of 
the  Pleasance.  There  their  last  walk 
in  this  world  nmst  end.  Many  a  man 
and  woman  have  gone  to  the  scaffold 
with  hearts  less  heavy  and  more  hope- 
fid  than  theirs. 

"  Dry  your  eyes,  Josephine.  They 
are  all  out  on  the  Pleasance." 

"  No,  I  will  not  dry  my  eves," 
cried  Josephine,  almost  violently. 
"  I  care  for  nothing  now." 

The  baroness,  the  doctor,  and  Laure, 
were  all  in  the  Pleasance  ;  and  as  the 
pair  came  in  every  eye  was  bent  on 
Josephine. 

She  felt  this,  and  at  another  time  it 
would  have  confused  her ;  but  the 
cold  recklessness  of  despondency  was 
on  her.  Camille,  on  the  other  hand, 
spite  of  his  deep  misery,  felt  a  shudder 
of  misgiving. 

"  They  are  all  looking  out  for  us," 
said  he  to  himself :  he  had  a  vague,  un- 


reasonable fear  that  they  suspected 
him  ;  thought  Josephine  unsafe  in  his 
comjjany.  He  stood  with  downcast 
eyes. 

Nobody  took  any  notice  of  him. 

The  baroness  with  a  trembling 
voice  said  to  Josephine  :  — 

"  Come  with  me,  my  poor  child  "  ; 
and  drew  her  apart. 

Laure  followed  them  with  her  eyes 
bent  on  the  ground. 

The  doctor  paced  up  and  down 
with  a  sad  and  troubled  face. 

Even  he  took  no  notice  of  Camille. 

So  at  last  Camille  came  to  him,  and 
said  :  — 

"  Monsieur,  the  time  is  come  that 
I  must  once  more  thank  you  for  all 
your  goodness  to  me,  and  bid  you 
farewell." 

"  What,  are  you  going  before  your 
strength  is  re-established  1 " 

"  1  am  out  of  all  danger,  thanks  to 
your  skill." 

"  Colonel,  at  another  time  I  should 
insist  upon  your  staying  a  day  or  two 
longer ;  but  now,  —  ah  !  colonel,  you 
came  to  a  happy  house,  but  you  leave 
a  sad  one.  Poor  Madame  Kaynal !  !  " 

"  Monsieur !  " 

"  You  saw  the  baroness  draw  her 
aside." 

"  Y-yes." 

"  By  this  time  she  knows  all." 

"  Monsieur,  you  torture  me.  In 
Heaven's  name !  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  forgot ;  you  do  not  know  the 
calamity  that  has  fallen  upon  our  be- 
loved Josephine,  —  on  the  darling  of 
the  house." 

Camille  turned  cold  with  apprehen- 
sion. 

But  he  said  faintly  :  — 

"  No  ;  tell  me  !  —  for  Heaven's  sake, 
tell  me  !  " 

"  My  poor  friend,"  said  the  doctor, 
solemnly,  "  her  husband  is  dead  ! " 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Camille  realized  nothing  at  first: 
he   looked   all   confused   in  the  doc- 


170 


wiiiri:  i.ii-s. 


tor's    face,    niitl    was   silent.      TliciJ 
after  a  wliilu  ho  said  :  — 

'•What.'     Who?     Dead?" 

"  Haymil  has  hucn  killed  in  no- 
tion." 

A  red  (lti>h  caiiio  to  Caniille's  face, 
mid  his  eyes  went  down  to  the  f:round 
at  his  very  feet,  nor  did  he  once  raise 
them  while  the  doeior  told  him  how 
the  sad  news  had  come. 

"  Picard  the  notary  brouj,'ht  us  the 
Moniteur,  and  there  was  i)oor  liaynal 
among  the  killed  in  a  cavalry  nkir- 
mish  ;  and,  —  oh  !  my  friend,  would 
vou  l)elieve  it? — there  was  another 
Haynal  in  this  same  action,  —  a 
Coionel  Haynal.  lie  was  only  wound- 
ed ;  but  Commandant  Kaynal — our 
Raynal,  our  hero,  our  benefactor,  our 
mainstay  —  n\u»t  bo  killed.  Ah  ! 
■we  are  unfortunates !  You  share  our 
sorrow,  colonel  '.  He  was  an  old  com- 
rade of  yours,  —  poor  fellow  ! " 

"  lie  saved  my  life." 

Camille's  eyes  never  left  his  feet. 

"  E.xcuse  me,  colonel ;  I  must  go  to 
my  poor  friend  the  baroness.  She 
had  a  mother's  love  for  him  who  is  no 
more,  —  well  she  miglit." 

St  Aubin  went  away,  and  left  Du- 
jardln  staniliiif;  tliere  like  a  statui-, 
his  eyes  still  glued  to  tiie  ground  at 
his  feet. 

The  doctor  wa^  no  sooner  out  of 
sight,  than  Camille  raised  his  eyes 
furtively,  like  a  guilty  person,  and 
looked  in'csolutely  tills  w.iyand  that  : 
at  last  he  went  in  and  got  liis  cap,  then 
came  out  again  and  went  back  to  the 
place  where  he  had  meilitated  suicide 
and  murder :  looked  down  at  it  a  long 
while,  —  then  looked  uj)  to  heaven,  — 
then  fell  suddenly  on  his  knees,  —  and 
so  remained  till  nightfall. 

Then  he  came  back  to  the  chateau. 

He  said  to  himself:  "And  it  is 
too  late  to  go  away  to-night."  lie 
went  sofily  into  the  saloon.  No- 
body was  ilierc  but  Laure  and  St. 
Aubin.  At  sight  of  him  Laurc  rose 
and  left  the  room.  She  leturncd  in  a 
few  minutes,  and  rang  the  bell,  and 
ordered  some  su|>j)er  to  be  brought  uj) 
for  Colonel  Dujardin. 


"  You  have  not  dined,"  said  she, 

coldly. 

"  1  was  afraid  you  were  gone  alto- 
gether," said  the  doctor.  "  He  told 
me  he  was  going  this  evening,  Laure. 
You  had  better  stay  quiet  another 
dav  or  two,"  added  he,  kin<lly. 

''  Do  you  tliink  so  ?  "  said  Camille, 
timidly. 

The  baroness  drew  Josephine  aside, 
and  trietl  to  break  to  her  the  sail 
news  :  but  her  own  grief  overcame  her, 
and  bursting  into  tears  she  bewailed 
tiie  loss  of  her  son.  Josephine  was 
greatly  sliock<;d.  Death.'  —  Haynal 
dead,  —  her  true,  kind  friend  dead,  — 
her  liencfactor  dead.  She  clung  to 
her  mother's  neck,  and  sobl)cd  with 
her.  I'resentlv  she  withdrew  her  face 
and  suddenly  liid  it  in  both  her  hands. 

She  rose  and  kissed  her  mother 
once  more,  and  went  to  her  own 
room  ;  and  then,  though  there  was 
none  to  sec  her,  she  hid  her  wet  but 
burning  cheeks  in  her  hands. 

Josephine  conlined  herself  for  some 
days  to  her  own  room,  leaving  it 
only  to  go  to  the  chaynjl  in  the  park, 
where  she  spent  hours  in  prayers  for 
the  dead  and  in  self-humiliation. 
Her  "tender  conscience"  accused 
herself  bitterly  for  not  having  loved 
this  gallant  s|)irit  more  than  she  had. 

Camille,  too,  was  not  free  from  self- 
reproach. 

He  said  to  himself:  "Did  I  wish 
him  dead  ?  I  hojjc  I  never  Ibrmcd 
such  a  thought !  I  don't  remember 
ever  wishing  him  dead."  And  he 
went  tAice  a  day  to  that  place  by  the 
stream,  and  thought  very  solemnly 
what  a  terrible  thing  ungoverned  pas- 
sion is;  and  repented,  —  not  elo- 
quently, but  silently,  sincerely.  But 
soon  his  inijtatient  spirit  began  to 
torment  itself  again.  Why  did  Jose- 
phine shun  him  now  ?  Ah  !  she  loved 
Kaynal  now  that  he  was  dead.  Wo- 
men love  the  thing  they  have  lost ;  so 
he  had  heard  say.  In  that  case  the 
vcrv  sight  of  him  would  of  course  be 
odi(Uis  to  her  :  he  could  understand 
that.    The  absolute  unreasoning  faith 


WHITE   LIES. 


177 


he  once  liad  in  her  hud  been  so  rudel}' 
shaken  by  her  marriage  with  Ilaynal, 
that  now" he  couUl  only  beheve  just  so 
much  as  he  saw,  and  he  saw  that  she 
shunned  him. 

He- became  moody,  sad,  and  discon- 
solate ;  and  as  Josephine  shunned 
him,  so  he  avoided  all  tlie  others,  and 
■wandered  for  hours  by  himself,  per- 
plexed and  miserable.  After  a  while, 
he  became  conscious  that  he  was  un- 
der a  sort  of  surveillance.  Laure  de 
Beaurepaire,  who  had  been  so  kind  to 
Iiim  when  he  was  confined  to  his  own 
room,  but  had  taken  little  notice  of 
liim  since  he  came  down,  now  resumed 
her  care  of  him,  and  evidently  made  it 
her  business  to  keep  up  his  heart. 
She  used  to  meet  him  out  walking  in 
a  mj'sterious  wa}",  and,  in  short,  be 
always  falling  in  witii  him  and  trying 
to  cheer  him  up,  with  very  partial 
success. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

Edouard  RiviEUE  retarded  his 
cure  by  an  impatient  spirit ;  but  he 
got  well  at  last,  and  iiis  uncle  drove 
him  in  the  cabriolet  to  his  own  quar- 
ters. He  had  received  one  letter  from 
Laure,  one  from  the  baroness,  and 
two  from  St.  Aubin  ;  and  in  these  let- 
ters the  news  of  the  house  had  been 
told  him,  but,  of  course,  in  so  vague 
and  general  a  way  that,  thinking  he 
knew  all,  in  realitj'  he  knew  nothing. 

Josephine  had  married  Raynal. 
The  marriage  was  sudden,  but  no 
doubt  there  was  an  attachment :  he 
believed  in  sudden  attachments :  he 
had  some  reason  to.  Colonel  Dujar- 
din,  an  old  acquaintance,  had  come 
back  to  France  wounded,  and  the 
good  doctor  had  undertaken  his  cure  : 
this  incident  appeared  neither  strange 
nor  anyway  important.  What  affect- 
ed him  most  deeply  was  the  death  of 
Raynal,  his  personal  friend  and  patron. 
But  when  his  tyrants,  as  he  called  the 
surgeon  and  his  uncle,  gave  him  leave 
to  go  home,  all  feelings  were  over- 
powered by  his  great  joy  at  the  pros- 
8* 


pect  of  seeing  Laure.  He  walked 
over  to  Beaurepaire,  his  arm  in  a  sling, 
his  heart  beating.  He  was  coming  to 
receive  the  reward  of  all  he  had  done, 
and  all  he  had  attempted.  "  I  will 
surprise  them,"  thought  he.  "  I  will 
see  her  face  when  I  come  in  at  the 
door  :  O  happy  hour !  this  pays  for 
all."  He  entered  the  house  without 
announcing  himself ;  he  went  softly 
up  to  the  saloon  ;  to  his  great  disap- 
pointment he  foimd  no  one  but  the 
baroness ;  she  received  him  kindly, 
but  not  with  the  warmth  he  expected. 
She  was  absorbed  in  her  new  grief. 
He  asked  timidly  after  her  daughters. 
"  Madame  Raynal  bears  up,  for  the 
sake  of  others.  You  will  not,  how- 
ever, see  her  :  she  keeps  her  room. 
IVIy  daughter  Laure  is  taking  a  walk, 
I  believe."  After  some  polite  inqui- 
ries, and  sympathy  with  his  accident, 
the  baroness  retired  to  indulge  her 
grief,  and  Edouard  thus  liberated  ran 
in  search  of  his  beloved,  j 

He  had  not  fiir  to  go. 

He  met  her  at  the  gate  of  the  Pleas- 
ance,  but  not  alone.  She  was  walk- 
ing with  an  officer,  —  a  liandsome, 
commanding,  haughty,  brilliant  offi- 
cer. She  was  walking  by  his  side, 
talking  earnestly  to  him. 

An  arrow  of  ice  shot  through  young 
Riviere;  and  then  came  a  feeling  of 
death  at  his  heart,  a  new  symptom  in 
his  young  life. 

The  next  moment  Laure  caught 
sight  of  him.  She  flushed  all  over, 
and  uttered  a  little  exclamation,  and 
she  bounded  towards  him  like  a  little 
antelope,  and  put  out  both  her  hands 
at  once.     He  could  only  give  her  one. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  cried,  with  an  accent  of 
heavenly  pity,  and  took  his  hand  with 
both  hers. 

Tiiis  was  like  the  meridian  sun 
cominix  suddenly  on  a  cold  place. 
His  misn-iviufrs  could  not  stand  against 
it. 

When  Josephine  heard  he  was 
come,  her  eye  flashed,  and  she  said, 
quickly :  — 

"  I  will  come  down  to  welcorao 
him,  — dear  Edouard  !  " 


178 


WllITi:    LIKS. 


The  sisU-'is  lookcil  iit  one  nnothcr. 
Josepliiiii-  l)lii>lic'(l.  Laiiif  smiled  and 
kissid  Ikt.     Slic  coloicd  liijilicr  still. 

Wlion  the  time  came,  Joscjdiiiic 
hesitated. 

"  I  am  asliauied  to  j^o  down." 
"  Why  '.  " 

"  Look  at  my  fare  !  " 
•■  1  see  notliiny;  wrouj;  with  it,  cx- 
cci)t   that    it  eclipses  other  people's  : 
there  is  that  inconvenience." 

"  O  yes,  dear  Laurc :  look  what  a 
color  it  has,  and  a  fortnight  a;;o  it  was 
pale  as  ti.slics." 

"  Never  mind  ;  do  you  exjjcct  mo 
to  re<;ret  it  ^  " 

"  Laure,  I  am  a  very  had  woman  I  " 
"  Arc  you,  dear  '.  —  hook  this  for 
mc. 

"  Yes,  love !  But  I  sometimes 
think  you  would  forgive  mc,  if  you 
knew  how  hard  I  i)ray  to  bo  better. 
Laure,  I  do  try  .<o  to  be  as  unlia])])y 
as  I  ou^dit ;  but  I  can't,  —  I  can't! 
My  heart  seems  as  dead  to  uidia])pi- 
ncss,  as  once  it  was  to  happiness  ;  am 
I  a  heartless  woman,  after  all  1  " 

"  Not  altogether,"  said  Laurc,  dry- 
ly. "Pastcn  my  collar,  dear;  and 
don't  torment  yourself.  You  have 
suffered  mucli  and  nobly.  It  was  Heav- 
en's will:  you  bowed  to  it.  It  was 
not  Heaven's  will  that  you  should  be 
blighted  altogeilicr.  Bow  in  this,  too, 
to  Heaven's  will  ;  take  things  as  they 
come,  and  cease  to  try  to  reconcile  feel- 
ings that  arc  too  ojipositc  to  live  to- 
gether." 

"Ah!  these  arc  such  comfortable 
words,  Laure  ;  but  mamma  will  sec 
this  drca<lful  color  in  my  cheek,  and 
what  can  I  say  to  her  ?  " 

"  Ten  to  one  it  will  not  beobscn-ed  ; 
and,  if  it  should,  I  will  say  it  is  the 
excitement  of  seeing  Edouard.  Leave 
all  to  me." 

Josephine  greeted  Edouard  most 
affectionately,  drew  from  him  his 
whole  history,  and  petted  him  and 
sympathized  with  him  deliciously,  and 
rnade  him  tlic  hero  of  the  evening. 
Camillc,  who  wa-;  not  naturally  of  a 
jealous  tem])fr,  Inire  this  very  well  at 
first ;  but  at  last  he  looked  so  bitter 


at  her  neglect  of  him,  tliat  Laurc  took 
liiin  aside    to  soothe  him.     Kdouard, 
missing  the  auduor  he  most  valued, 
and    seeing  her  in  secret   conference 
with  the   brilliant   colonel,  felt  a  re- 
turn of  the  jealous  jjangs  tha*  had 
seized  him  at  first  sight  of  the  man  .• 
and  so  they  jilayed  at  cross-pur|)oses. 
At   anotiier   j)eriod   of   the  evening 
tlic  conversation   became  more  gcner. 
al,  and  Edouard  took  a  dislike  to  Col 
onel    Duj.irdin.     A   young   man   of 
twenty -eight  nearly  always  looks  on 
a  boy  of  twenty-one  with  the  air  of  a 
su]Kricr,  and  this  assumption,  not  be- 
ing an  ill-natured  one,  is  apt  so  be  so 
ca.'^y  and  so  iin<lelined,  that  the  young- 
er harilly  knows  how  to  resent  or  to 
resist  it.     But  Edouard  was  a  little 
vain,  as  we   know ;    and  the  colonel 
jarred     liim      terribly.      His     quick, 
lianghty  eye  jarred   him.     His   regi- 
mentals jarred  him  :  they  fitted    like 
a    gh)vc.      His     mustache    and     his 
manner  jarred  him  ;  and,  worst  of  all, 
his  cool  familiarity  with  Laurc,  who 
seemed  to  court  him  rather  than  be 
courted  by  him.     He  i)Ut  this  act  of 
Laure's  to  the   colonel's  account,  ac- 
cording to  the  custom  of  lovers,  and 
revenged  himself  in   a  small  way  by 
telling  Jose])hinc  in  her  ear,  "  that  the 
colonel  produced  on  his  mind  the  ef- 
fect of  a  pup]>y." 

Josephine  colored  up,  and  looked 
at  him  witli  a  momentary  surprise : 
she  said  (juietly  :  "  Military  men  do 
give  themselves  some  airs,  —  but  he 
is  very  amiable  at  bottom,  —  at  least 
so  Laure  says,  —  so  they  all  say. 
You  must  make  acquaintance  with 
him,  and  then  he  will  reveal  to  you 
his  nobler  qualities."  "  O,  I  have 
no  particular  desire,"  sneered  Ed- 
ouard. Josephine  said  nothing,  but 
soon  afttr  she  quietly  turned  Ed- 
ouard over  to  St.  Aubin,  while  she 
joined  Laure,  and  under  cover  of  her 
had  a  sweet,  timid  chat  with  her  false- 
ly accused. 

This  occupied  the  two  so  entirely, 
that  Edouard  made  his  adieus  to  the 
baroncs*,  ami  marched  off  in  dud- 
geon unobserved. 


WHITE  LIES. 


179 


Laure  missed  him  first,  but  said 
nothin<^. 

When  Josephine  saw  he  was  gone, 
she  uttered  a  little  exclamation,  and 
looked  at  Laure.  Laure  put  on  a 
mien  of  haughty  inditFerence,  but  the 
water  was  in  her  eyes. 

Josephine  looked  sorrowful. 

When  tliey  talked  over  everything 
together  at  night,  she  repruaclied  her- 
self. "  We  behaved  ill  to  poor  Ed- 
ouard  ;  we  neglected  him." 

"  He  is  a  little,  cross,  ill-tempered 
fellow,"  said  Laure,  pettishly. 

"0  no!  no!" 

"And  as  vain  as  a  peacock." 

"  Laure,  in  this  liouse  has  he  not 
some  right  to  be  vain  ?  " 

"  Yes,  —  no.  I  am  very  angry 
with  him.  I  won't  hear  a  word  in  his 
favor,"  said  Laure,  pouting  :  then  she 
gave  his  defender  a  kiss.  "  Yes,  dear," 
said  Josephine,  answering  the  kiss, 
and  ignoring  the  words,  "  he  is  a 
dear ;  and  he  is  not  cross,  nor  so  very 
vain,  poor  boy,  — now  don't  you  see 
what  it  was?" 

"  No." 

"Yes,  you  do,  you  little  cunning 
thing  :  you  arc  too  shrewd  not  to  see 
ever3'thing." 

"  No,  indeed,  Josephine,  —  do  tell 
me.  —  don't  keep  me  waiting?" 

"  Well  then,  —jealous  ! !  " 

"  Jealous  ?  O,  what  fun ,  —  who  of  ? 
Of  Camille  ?  Ha !  ha  !  Little  goose !  " 

"And,  Laure,  I  almost  think  lie 
would  be  jealous  of  any  one  that  occu- 
pied your  attention.     I  watched  him." 

"All  the  better,  I'll  torment  my 
lord." 

"  Heaven  forbid  you  should  be  so 
cruel." 

"  O,  I  will  not  make  him  unhappy, 
but  I  '11  tease  him  a  little :  it  is  not  in 
nature  not  to." 

This  foible  detected  in  her  lover, 
Laure  was  very  gay  at  the  prospect 
of  amusement  it  afforded  her. 

And  I  think  I  have  many  readers 
who  at  this  moment  are  awaiting  un- 
mixed enjoyment  and  hilarity  from 
the  same  source. 

"  Ah !  " 


Edouard  called  the  next  day :  he 
wore  a  gloomy  air.  Laure  met  this 
with  a  particularly  cheerful  one ;  on 
this  Edouard's  face  cleared  up,  and 
he  was  himself  again ;  agreeable  as 
this  was,  Laure  felt  a  little  disappoint- 
ed. "  I  am  afraid  he  is  not  jealous, 
after  all,"  thought  she. 

Josephine  left  her  room  this  day 
and  mingled  once  more  with  the  fi\m- 
ily.  The  bare  sight  of  her  was 
enough  for  Camille  at  iirst ;  but  after 
a  while  he  wanted  more.  lie  wanted 
to  be  often  alone  with  her,  —  but  sev- 
eral causes  co-operated  to  make  her 
shy  of  giving  him  many  such  oppor- 
tunities. First  her  natural  delicacy 
coupled  with  her  habit  of  self-denial, 
then  her  fear  of  shocking  her  mother, 
and  lastly  her  fear  of  her  own  heart, 
and  of  Camille,  whose  power  over  her 
she  knew.  For  Camille,  when  he  did 
get  a  sweet  word  alone  with  her, 
seemed  to  forget  everything  except 
that  she  was  his  betrothed,  and  that 
he  had  come  back  alive  to  marry  her. 
He  spoke  to  her  of  his  love  with  an 
ardor  and  an  urgency  that  made  her 
thrill  with  happiness,  and  at  the  same 
time  shrink  with  a  certain  fear  and 
self-reproach.  Possessed  with  a  feel- 
ing no  stronger  than  hers,  but  single, 
he  did  not  comprehend  the  tumult, 
the  trouble,  the  daily  contest  in  her 
heart.  The  wind  seemed  to  him  to 
be  always  changing,  and  hot  and  cold 
the  same  hour.  Since  he  did  not 
even  see  that  slie  was  acting  in  hourly 
fear  of  her  mother's  eye,  he  was  little 
likely  to  penetrate  her  more  hidden 
sentiments ;  and  then  he  had  not 
touched  her  key-note,  —  self-denial. 

Women  are  self-denying  and  un- 
candid.  I\Ien  are  self-indulgent  and 
outspoken. 

And  this  is  the  key  to  a  thousand 
double  misunderstandings ;  for  good 
women  are  just  as  stupid  in  misunder- 
standing men,  as  good  men  are  in 
misunderstanding  women. 

To  Camille,  Josephine's  fluctuations, 
joys,  tremors,  love,  terror,  modesty, 
seemed  one  grand  total  caprice.  The 
component  parts  of  it  he  saw  not ; 


180 


WHITE  LIKS. 


and  her  cnjiricc  torturcil  liim  almost 
to  iniulness.  'I'oo  ]»onitcnt  to  {,'ive 
way  ti<^aiii  to  viok-nt  jmssion,  lie 
fretted.  His  liealtli  retro^^iaded,  and 
his  tem])er  l)e;.'an  to  sour.  Tlie  eye 
of  timid  love  that  watched  him  with 
maternal  aii.xieiy  rroin  under  its  lunp 
liishes  saw  thi.s  with  dismay, — and 
Laure,  who  looked  into  her  sister's 
bosom,  devoted  herself  oiiec  more  to 
Boothe  him  without  eompromisin;;  Jo- 
sephine's delieaey.  Heni'e  arose  mys- 
tifieation  No.  3.  Kiviere's  natural 
jealousy  heinj;  once  awakened  found 
constant  food  in  the  attention  Laure 
paid  Camille.  The  false  ])Osition  of 
all  the  parties  hrouj^ht  ahout  some 
singular  turns.  I  jrive  from  their  ninn- 
ber  one  that  forms  a  link,  thoii^^h  a 
small  one,  in  my  narrative. 

One  day,  Edouard  found  Laure 
alone  in  the  I'leasancc  ;  she  received 
him  with  a  radiant  smile,  ami  tliey  had 
a  cliarming  talk,  a  talk  all  about  him; 
what  the  liimily  owed  him,  etc. 

On  this,  his  late  jealousy  and  sense 
of  injury  seemed  a  ihinj;  of  three 
years  ago,  and  never  to  return. 

Jacintha  came  with  a  message  from 
the  colonel,  "  Would  it  be  agreeable 
to  Mademoiselle  Lanre  to  walk  with 
him  at  the  usual  hour  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  said  Laure." 

As  Jacintha  was  retiring  Edouard 
called  to  her  to  stop  a  minute. 

"  Mhv  I  beg  you  to  reconsider  that 
determination?"  said  he  to  Laure, 
politely. 

"  AVhat  determination  ?  " 

"  To  sarritice  mc  to  this  Colonel 
Dujardin  ?  "  still  politely,  only  a  little 
grimly. 

Laure  opened  her  eyes.  "Are  you 
mad?"  inquired  she,  with  quiet  hau- 
teur. 

"  Neither  mad  nor  a  fool,"  was  the 
reply.  "  I  love  you  too  well  to  share 
your  regard  with  any  one,  upon  any 
terms ;  least  of  all  upon  these,  that 
there  is  to  be  a  man  in  the  world,  at 
whose  beck  and  call  you  are  to  be, 
and  at  whose  orders  you  are  to  break 
ofFan  interview  with  me.     Perdition  I" 

••  Kdij!i:ivd,  what  folly!     Can  yon 


suspect  mc  of  discourtesy,  as  well  as 
of —  I  know  not  what.  Cohuul  Du- 
jardin w  ill  join  us,  that  is  all,  and  wo 
.shall  take  a  little  walk  with  him." 

"  Nut  I  ;  I  decline  the  intrusion  : 
you  arc  engaged  with  mc,  and  1  have 
things  to  say  to  you  that  are  not  fit 
for  that  jjuppy  to  hear.  Choose  there- 
fore between  me  and  him,  and  choose 
forever." 

Laure  colored,  but  smiled.  "I 
should  be  very  sorry  to  <  hoose  either 
of  you  forever,  but  for  this  afternoon 
I  choose  you." 

"  O,  thank  you,  —  my  whole  life 
shall  prove  my  grutitudefor  this  pref- 
erence." 

Laure  beckoned  Jacintha,  ami  sent 
,  her  with  an  excuse  to  Ca])tain  Dujar- 
din. She  then  turned  wiih  an  air  of 
1  mock  sidimission  to  Edouard.  "  I 
am  at  monsieur's  onlfrs." 

Edouard,  radiant  with  triumph,  and 
naturally  good-natured,  thanked  her 
again  and  again  for  her  condescension 
in  setting  his  heart  at  rest.  He  pro- 
posed a  walk,  since  his  interference 
had  lost  her  one.  She  yielded  a  cold 
assent.  'Jhis  vexed  him,  but  he  took 
for  granted  it  would  wear  off  before 
the  end  of  the  walk.  Edouard 's  heart 
bounded,  but  he  loved  her  too  sin- 
cerely to  be  happy  uidess  he  could  see 
her  hajipy  too ;  the  malicious  thing 
saw  this,  or  jicihaps  knew  it  by  in- 
stinct, and  by  means  of  this  good  feel- 
ing of  his  she  revenged  herself  for  his 
tyranny.  She  tortured  him  as  only  a 
woman  can  torture,  and  as  even  she 
can  torture  only  a  worthy  man,  and 
one  who  loves  her.  In  the  com\se  of 
that  short  walk  this  inexperienced 
girl,  strong  in  the  instincts  and  in- 
born arts  of  her  sex,  drove  pins  and 
needles,  needles  and  pins,  of  all  sorts 
and  sizes,  through  her  lover's  heart. 

She  was  everything  by  turns,  ex- 
cept kind, — and  nothing  for  long  to- 
gether. She  was  peevisli,  she  was  os- 
tentatiously patient  and  submissive, 
she  was  inattentive  to  her  companion, 
and  seemingly  wrapjied  up  in  contem- 
plation of  absent  things  and  persons, 
the  colonel,  to  w  it.     She  was  dogged, 


WHITE   LIES. 


181 


repulsive,  and  as  cold  as  ice  ;  and  she 
never  was  herself  a  single  moment. 
They  returned  to  the  gate  of  the 
Pleasance.  "  Well,  mademoiselle," 
said  Riviere,  very  sadly,  "  that  inter- 
loper might  as  well  have  been  with 
us." 

"  Of  course  he  might,  and  you  would 
have  lost  nothing  by  permitting  me 
to  be  courteous  to  a  guest  and  an  in- 
valid. If  you  had  not  plaj-ed  the 
tyrant,  and  taken  the  matter  into  your 
own  hands,  I  should  have  found  means 
to  soothe  your  zeal,  your  vanity : 
but  you  preferred  to  have  your  own 
way.     Well,  ycjit  iiave  had  it." 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle,  you  have  given 
me  a  lesson ;  you  have  shown  me 
how  idle  it  is  to  attempt  to  force  a 
young  lady's  inclinations  in  anything. 
I  shall  not  however  offend  again  ;  for 
I  am  going  away." 

"  O,  are  you  ?  "  She  did  not  believe 
him. 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle.  I  am  sorry 
to  say  I  am  promoted." 

"  Sorry  you  arc  promoted  ?  " 

"  I  mean  I  was  sorry  this  morning ; 
because  my  new  post  is  ten  leagues 
from  Beaurepaire  ;  but  now  I  am  not 
sorry,  for,  were  I  to  stay  here,  I  fore- 
see you  would  soon  lose  whatever 
friendly  feeling  you  have  for  me." 

"  I  am,  then,  very  changeable.  I 
am  not  considered  so,"  remonstrated 
Laurc,  gently. 

Kiviere  explained  :  "  I  am  not  vain, 
no  man  less  so,  nor  am  I  jealous :  but 
I  respect  myself,  and  I  could  never  be 
content  to  share  your  time  and  your 
regard  with  Colonel  Dujardln,  or  with 
a  much  better  man." 

"  Monsieur,"  began  Laure,  angrily. 
Then  she  reflected.  "  Monsieur  Ed- 
ouard,"  said  she,  kindly,  "  if  you  were 
not  going  to  leave  us  (only  for  a  time, 
I  trust),  "  I  should  be  angry,  and  let 
you  think  —  any  nonsense,  and  so  vex 
yourself  and  affront  me  monsieur : 
but  it  is  no  time  for  teasing  you  :  my 
friend,  be  reasonable,  —  be  just  to 
yourself  and  me,  —  do  not  give  way 
to  ridiculous  fancies :  do  not  raise 
to  a  fidse  importance  this  poor  man, 


who  is  nothing  to  you,  nothing  to  me, 
upon  my  honor." 

"  Dear  Mademoiselle  Laure,"  said 
Edouard,  "  see  what  tliis  person,  who, 
after  your  words,  I  am  bound  to  be- 
lieve is  indifferent  to  you,  has  done. 
He  has  made  me  arrogant  and  impe- 
rious to  yon.  Was  I  ever  so  before  ?  " 

"  No  !  no  !  no  !  and  I  forgive  you 
now,  my  poor  friend." 

''  He  has  made  you  cold  as  ice  to 


me 


1 " 


"  No  !  that  was  my  own  wickedness 
and  spitefulness." 

"  Wickedness,  spitefulness  !  they 
are  not  in  your  nature.  It  is  all  this 
wretch's  doing." 

Laure  sighed,  but  she  said  nothing  : 
for  she  sa^v  that  to  excuse  Cainilie 
would  only  make  the  jealous  one 
more  bitter  against  him. 

"  Will  you  deign  to  write  to  me  at 
my  new  post  %  once  a  month  ?  in  an- 
swer to  my  letters  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  friend.  But  you  will 
ride  over  sometimes  to  see  us." 

"  0  yes  :  biit  for  some  little  time  I 
shall  not  be  able.  The  duties  of  a 
new  post." 

"  I  understand  —  well,  then  —  in  a 
fortnight  or  so  ?  " 

"  Sooner  perhaps,  —  the  moment  that 
man  is  out  of  the  house." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

"  Laure,  dear,  you  have  not  walked 
with  him  at  all  to-day." 

"  No :  you  must  pet  him  yourself 
to-dav.     i  hate  the  sight  of  him." 

"  What  has  he  done  1  " 

"  He  has  done  nothing  :  but  it  has 
made  mischief  between  Edouard  and 
me,  my  being  so  attentive  to  him. 
Edouard  is  jealous,  and  I  cannot 
wonder.  After  all,  what  right  have  I 
to  mystify  him  who  honors  me  with* 
his  affection  '?  " 

Then,  being  pressed  with  questions 
l)y  Josephine,  she  related  to  her  all 
that  had  passed  between  Edouard  and 
her,  word  for  word. 


182 


WMITi:   LIES. 


Josephine.      "  Poor  Caniillc  !  "  1 

/>ii/rc.  "()  yc-s!  poor  Cftinillc  ! 
wlio  has  the  power  to  make  us  all 
niiseriil)lc,  and  wlio  docs  it,  and  will 
do  it,  until  lie  is  hai>))y  hiniscH." 

"Ah!  would  to  licavcn  1  could 
make  him  ui  liappv  as  lie  deserves  to 
be." 

"  You  could  easily  do  that.  And 
why  not  do  it?  " 

*'  Laurc,  you  know  very  well  what 
sacred  feelin;;s  wiililiold  me.  Laure, 
tell  me,  do  you  think  it  is  really  pos- 
siMc  Camilie  does  not  really  know  iny 
heart,  and  all  the  feelings  that  strive 
in  it  ?  " 

"  My  sister,  these  men  nrc  absurd  : 
they  believe  only  what  they  see.  I 
have  done  what  I  c;»n  for  you  and 
Camilie ;  but  it  is  useless.  Would 
vou  have  him  believe  you  love  him, 
vou  must  yourself  be  kind  to  him  ; 
and  it  would  be  a  charitable  action,  — 
YOU  would  make  four  unhapjn'  people 
iiappy,  or  at  least  put  them  on  the 
roa<l :  now  they  arc  off  the  road,  and, 
by  what  I  have  seen  to-day,  I  think, 
if  we  t,'0  on  so  a  little  longer,  it  will 
be  too  late  to  try  to  return.  Come, 
Josephine,  for  my  sake  !  " 

"  Ah  !  you  say  this  out  of  kindness 
tome,  —  and  to  me  alone." 

"  No,  indeed,  I  am  thinking  of  my- 
self. He  will  make  us  all  miserable 
for  life  if  he  is  not  made  happv  di- 
rectlv." 

"  if  I  thought  that,  I  could  almost 
consent." 

"  To  be  happy  yourself?  " 

"  I  will  remonstrate  with  him  for 
his  unkindness  to  me,  —  in  being  mis- 
erable." 

"  .losephinc,  I  will  go  and  tell  him 
what  you  sav." 

"Stay,  Liiure." 

"No"!  I  will  not  stay.  There,  the 
crime  is  mine." 

Laure  returned  the  next  minute. 

"  There,"  she  cried,  "  he  is  going 
away." 

Josephine  started. 

"  Going  away  ?     Impossible  !  " 

"  Yes  !  he  is  in  his  rcKim,  packing 
up  his  things  to  go.     I  spied  through 


the  old  [dace  and  saw  him.  lie  \\m 
sighing  like  a  furn.ice  as  he  strapped 
his  portmanteau.  1  hate  him,  —  but 
I  was  sorrv  lor  him.  1  could  not  help 
iK-ing." 

Josephine  turned  pale,  and  lifted 
her  bands  in  surprise  and  dismay. 

"  Depend  on  it,  Josephine,  we  arc 
wrong,"  said  Laure,  lirmly  :  "  these 
wretches  will  not  stJind  our  nonsense 
above  a  certain  time,  —  and  they  arc 
right.  My  sister,  we  arc  mismanag- 
ing :  one  gone,  —  the  other  going,  — 
both  losing  faith  in  us." 

Josephine's  color  returned  to  her 
cheek,  and  then  mounted  high.  Pres- 
ently she  smiled,  a  smile  full  of  con- 
scious power  and  furtive  comidaceney. 

"  He  will  not  go." 

Laure  was  pleased,  but  not  sur- 
prised, to  hear  her  sister  speak  so 
confidently,  for  she  knew  her  power 
over  Camilie. 

"  That  is  right.  Go  to  him,  and 
say  two  words,  'I  bid  you  stay.'" 

"  O  Laurc  !  no  !  " 

"Poltroon!  Vou  know  he  would 
go  down  on  his  knees,  and  stay  di- 
rectly." 

"  No :  I  should  blush  all  my  life 
before  you  luul  him.  I  could  not.  I 
should  let  him  go  sooner,  almost.  (> 
no !  I  will  never  ask  a  man  to  stay 
who  wishes  to  leave  mc." 

"  Well !  but  you  said  just  now —  " 

"  Laure,  dear,  go  to  him,  and  say 
Madame  Haynal  is  going  to  take  a  lit- 
tle walk  :  will  he  do  her  the  honor 
to  be  her  companion?  Not  a  word 
more,  if  you  love  mc." 

"  I  go!"  Ilyjwcritc!  " 

Josephine  received  Camilie  with  a 
bright  smile.  She  was  in  unusually 
good  spirits,  and  overflowing  with 
kindness  and  iimocent  affection.  On 
this  his  gloomy  bro\v  relaxed,  and  all 
his  prospects  brightened  as  by  magic. 
Then  she  communicated  to  him  a 
number  of  little  plans  for  next  week 
and  the  week  after.  Among  the  rest 
he  was  to  go  with  her  and  Laure  to 
Frejus. 

"  Such    a  sweet    place,    Camilie : 


WHITE  LIES. 


183 


I  must  show  it  you.  You  will 
come'?" 

He  hesitated  a  single  moment :  a 
moment  of  intense  anxiety  to  the 
smiling  Josepliine. 

"Yes!  he  would  come, — it  was  a 
great  temptation,  —  he  saw  so  little  of 
her." 

"  You  will  see  more  of  me  now,  Ca- 
mille !  " 

"  Shall  I  see  you  every  day,  —  alone, 
I  mean  ? " 

"  O  yes,  if  you  wish  it,"  replied 
Josephine,  in  an  oft'-haud,  indifferent 
way. 

He  seized  her  hand  and  devoured  it 
with  kisses. 

"  Foolish  Camille  !  "  murmured 
she,  looking  down  on  him  with  inef- 
fable tenderness.  "  Should  I  not  be 
always  with  you  if  1  consulted  my  in- 
clination 1  let  me  go." 

"  No  !  consult  j'our  inclination  a 
little  longer." 

"  Must  I  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  that  shall  be  your  punish- 
ment for —  humph  !  " 

"  For  what  1  What  have  I  done  1  " 
asked  she,  with  an  air  of  great  inno- 
cence. 

"  You  have  made  me  happy,  me 
who  adore  you." 

Josephine  came  in  from  her  walk 
witli  a  high  color  and  beaming  eyes. 

"  Run,  Lauie  !  " 

On  this  concise,  and  to  us  not  very 
clear  instruction,  Laure  slipped  up 
the  secret  stair.  She  saw  Camille 
come  in  and  gravely  unpack  his  little 
portmanteau,  and  dispose  his  things 
in  the  drawers  with  soldierlike  neat- 
ness, and  hum  an  agreeable  march. 

She  came  and  told  Josephine. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Josephine,  with  a  lit- 
tle sigh  of  pleasure,  and  a  gentle  tri- 
umph in  her  eyes. 

She  had  not  only  got  her  desire, 
but  had  arrived  at  it  her  way,  —  wo- 
man's way,  —  roundabout. 

This  adroit  benevolence  led  to  more 
than  she  bargained  for. 

She  and  Camille  were  now  together 
every  day :  and  their  hearts,  being 
under  restraint  in  public,  melted  to- 


gether all  the  more  in  their  stolen  in- 
terviews. Much  that  passed  between 
these  true  lovers  may  well  be  left  to 
the  imagination. 

At  the  third  delicious  interview 
Camille  Dujardin  begged  Josephine 
to  be  his  wife  directly. 

Have  you  noticed  those  half-tame 
deer  that  come  up  to  you  in  a  park  so 
lovingly,  with  great  tender  eyes,  and, 
being  now  almost  within  reach,  stop 
short,  and,  with  bodies  fixed  like  stat- 
ues on  pedestals,  crane  out  their 
graceful  necks  for  sugar,  or  bread,  or 
a  chestnut,  or  a  pocket-handkerchief  ? 
Do  but  offer  to  put  your  hand  upon 
them,  away  they  bound  that  moment 
twenty  yards,  and  then  stand  quite 
still,  and  look  at  your  hand  and  you, 
with  great  inquiring,  suspicious,  ten- 
der eyes. 

So  Josephine  started  at  Camille's 
audacious  proposal. 

"  Never  mention  sucli  a  thing  to  mc 
again:  or  —  or,  I  will  not  walk  with 
you  any  more " :  then  she  thrilled 
with  pleasure  at  the  obnoxious  idea, 
"  she  Camille's  wife  !  "  and  colored 
all  over,  —  with  rage,  Camille  thought. 
He  promised  submissively  not  to  re- 
new the  topic  :  no  more  he  did  till 
next  day. 

The  interval  Josephine  had  spent  in 
thinking  of  it. 

Therefore  she  was  prepared  to  put 
him  down  by  calm  reasons.  She  pro- 
ceeded to  do  so,  gently,  but  firmly. 

Lo  and  behold,  what  does  he  do, 
but  meets  her  with  just  as  many  rea- 
sons, and  just  as  calm  ones ;  and 
urges  them  gently  but  firmly. 

Heaven  had  been  very  kind  to 
them  :  why  should  they  be  unkind  to 
themselves  ?  They  had  had  a  great 
escape :  why  not  accept  the  happi- 
ness, as,  being  persons  of  honor,  they 
had  accepted  the  misery "?  with  many 
other  arguments,  differing  in  other 
things,  but  agreeing  in  this,  that  they 
were  all  sober,  grave,  and  full  of 
common  sense. 

Finding  him  not  defenceless  on  the 
score  of  reason,  she  shifted  her 
ground  and  appealed  to  his  delicacy. 


181 


WHITK   LIKS. 


On  this  lie  nppealol  to  her  love,  uiid 
then  ciilni  rea.Non  was  jostled  otf  the 
field,  and  passion  and  sentiment  but- 
tled in  her  plaee. 

In  these  contests,  day  hy  day  re- 
newed, Cainille  had  many  advantajris. 

Laiire,  though  >he  diil  not  like  him, 
had  now  declared  on  his  side.  She 
refused  to  show  him  the  least  atten- 
tion. This  threw  him  on  Josei)hine  ; 
and  when  Josephine  begpjed  Iter  to 
iielp  reduce  Cainille  to  reason,  licr 
answer  would  run  thus  :  — 

"  Hypocrite  !  "  with  a  kiss  :  or  else 
che  would  say,  with  a  halt-comic  j)et- 
iilance  :  "  No  !  no  !  I  am  on  his  side. 
Give  him  his  own  way  or  he  will 
make  us  all  four  miserable." 

Thu.s  Josephine's  ally  went  over  to 
the  enemy. 

And  then  this  coy  young  lady's 
very  jKjwer  of  resistance  licgan  to  give 
way.  She  had  now  battled  for 
months  against  her  own  heart:  first, 
for  her  mother  ;  then,  in  a  far  more 
terrible  conflict  for  Ivaynal,  for  honor 
and  purity  ;  and  of  late  she  had  been 
battling,  still  against  her  own  heart, 
for  delicacy,  for  etiquette,  things  very 
dear  to  her,  but  not  so  great,  holy,  and 
sustaining  as  honor  and  charity  that 
were  her  very  household  gods  :  and 
so,  just  when  the  motives  of  resist- 
ance were  lowcreil,  t!ie  length  of  the 
resistance  began  to  wear  her  out. 

For  nothing  is  so  hard  to  her  sex  as 
a  long,  steady  struggle.  In  matters 
physical,  this  is  the  thing  the  muscles 
of  the  fair  cannot  stand. 

In  matters  intellectual  and  moral, 
the  long  strain  it  is  that  beats  them 
dead.  Do  not  look  for  a  Baoona,  a 
Newtona,  a  Ilandella,  a  Victoria 
Iluga. 

Some  American  ladies  tell  us  edu- 
cation has  stopj)ed  the  growth  of 
these. 

No !  mesdames.  These  are  not  in 
nature. 

They  can  bubtde  letters  in  ten  min- 
utes that  you  could  no  more  deliver 
to  order  in  ten  days  than  a  river  c;in 
play  like  a  fountain.  They  can  spar- 
kle gems   of  stories  :  they   can   flash 


little  diamonds  of  poem>«.  The  entire 
se.\  ha.s  never  jtroduced  one  oj)cra  nor 
one  e|>ic  that  mankind  cquld  tolerate 
a  minute  :  and  why  f  —  these  come  by 
long,  high  strung  labor.  But,  weak 
as  they  are  in  the  long  run  of  every- 
thing but  the  atVections  (and  there 
giants),  they  are  all  overjiowcring 
while  their  gallop  lasts.  Fragilla 
shall  (lance  any  two  of  you  flat  on  the 
floor  before  four  o'clock,  and  then 
dance  on  till  ])e(p  of  day. 

You  trundle  off  to  your  business  u.s 
usual,  and  could  dance  again  the  next 
night,  and  so  on  through  countless 
ages. 

She  who  danced  you  into  nothing 
is  in  bed,  a  human  jelly  crowned  with 
headache. 

What  did  Josephine  say  to  Laiire 
one  day  '(  "  I  am  tired  of  saying 
'  No  !  no  !  no  !  no !  no  ! '  for  ever  and 
ever  to  him  I  love."  She  added,  com- 
bining two  leading  ideas  in  one  phrase 
as  it  is  not  given  the  rude  logical  sex 
to  do,  "  I  am  weary  of  all  this  cruelty." 

But  this  was  not  all.  She  was  not 
free  from  self-reproach.  Camille's 
faith  in  her  had  stood  tiim.  Hers  in 
him  had  not.  She  had  wronged  him, 
first  by  believing  him  false,  then  by 
marrying  another.  One  da^'  she 
asked  his  pardon  for  this.  He  re- 
plied :  — 

"I  have  forgiven  that,  Josephine; 
but  why  not  make  mc  forget  it?  " 

"  I  w-ish  I  couhl." 

"  You  can.  .Marry  me  :  then  your 
relations  with  that  man  will  seem  but 
a  hideous  dream.  I  shall  be  able  to 
sav,  looking  at  you  my  wife,  — '  I  was 
faiiliful, — I  suHered  something  for 
her,  —  I  came  home,  — she  loved  me 
still,  —  the  jjrool'is,  she  was  my  wife 
within  three  months  of  my  return." 

Wlien  be  said  that  to  her  in  the 
Pleasance,  if  there  ha<l  been  a  priest 
at  hand  —  In  a  word  Josephine 
longed  to  show  liim  her  love,  yet 
wished  not  to  shock  her  mother,  or 
oHiMid  her  own  sensi;  of  delicacy. 

Cainille  cared  for  nothing  but  his 
love.  To  sacrifice  love  and  happiness, 
even  for  a  time,  to  eti(}uette,  seemed 


WHITE   LIES. 


185 


to  Iiim  to  be  trifling  with  the  sub- 
stance of  great  things  for  the  shadow 
of  petty  things ;  and  he  said  so : 
sometimes  sadly,  sometimes  almost 
bitterly. 

Here  then  was  a  beleaguered  fortress 
attacked  with  one  will,  and  defended 
by  troops  one  third  of  which  were  hot 
on  the  side  of  the  besieger. 

Here  was  a  heart  divided  against 
itself,  attacked  by  a  single  heart. 

When  singleness  attacks  division, 
you  know  the  result  beforehand. 
Why  then  should  I  spin  words  ?  I 
will  not  trace  so  ill-matched  a  contest, 
step  by  step,  sentence  by  sentence ;  let 
me  rather  hasten  to  relate  the  one  pe- 
culiarity that  arose  out  of  this  trite 
contest,  where,  under  the  names  of 
Camille  and  Josephine,  the  two  great 
sexes  may  be  seen  acting  the  old 
world-wide  distich, 

"  It 's  a  man's  part  to  try, 
And  a  woman's  to  deny,"  [for  a  while  ?] 

Finding  hor  own  resolution  oozing 
away,  Josephine  caught  at  another 
person. 

Siie  said  to  Camille,  before  Laure  :  — 

"  Even  if  I  could  bring  myself  to 
snatch  at  happiness  in  this  indelicate 
way, —  scarce  a  month  after  —  oh  !  " 
—  And  there  ended  the  lady's  sen- 
tence. In  the  absence  of  a  legitimate 
full  stop,  she  put  one  hand  before  her 
lovely  face  to  hide  it,  and  so  no  more. 
But  some  two  minutes  after  she  deliv- 
ered the  rest  in  the  form  and  with  the 
tone  of  a  distinct  remark:  "My 
mother  would  never  consent." 

"  Yes,  she  would,  if  you  could  be 
brought  to  implore  her  as  earnestly  as 
I  implore  you." 

"  Would  she,  Laure  ? "  asked  Jose- 
phine, turning  quickly  to  lier  sister. 

"  No,  never  !  Our  mother  would 
look  with  horror  on  such  a  proposal. 
A  daughter  of  hers  to  marry  within  a 
twelvemonth  of  her  widowhood." 

"  Thei-e,  you  see,  Camille." 

"  But,  besides  that,  she  loved  Ray- 
nal." 

"  She  has  not  forgotten  him  as  we 
have,  almost." 


"  Ungrateful  creature  that  I  am," 
sighed  Josephine. 

"  She  mourns  for  him  every  day. 
Often  I  see  her  eyes  suddenly  till,  — • 
that  is  for  him.  Josephine's  inllu- 
ence  with  mamma  is  very  great :  it  is 
double  mine  :  but  if  we  all  went  on 
our  knees  to  her, — the  doctor  and 
all,  — she  would  never  consent." 

"  There,  you  see,  Camille  ;  and  I 
could  not  defy  my  mother,  — even  for 
you." 

Camille  sighed. 

"  I  see  everything  is  against  me, 
even  my  love  :  for  that  love  is  too 
much  akin  to  veneration  to  propose  to 
you  a  clandestine  marriage." 

"  0,  thank  you  !  bless  you  for  re- 
specting as  well  as  loving  me,  dear 
Camille." 

These  words,  uttered  with  gentle 
warmth,  were  some  consolation  to  Ca- 
mille, and  confirmed  him,  as  they  were 
intended  to  do,  in  the  above  good  reso- 
lution.    He  smiled. 

"  Maladroit !  "  cried  Laure. 

"  Why  maladroit  ?  "  asked  Camille, 
opening  his  eyes. 

"  Let  us  talk  of  something  else," 
replied  Laure,  coolly. 

Camille  turned  red.  He  under- 
stood that  he  had  done  something 
very  stupid,  but  he  could  not  conceive 
what. 

He  looked  from  one  sister  to  the 
other  alternately.  Laure  was  smiling 
ironically. 

Josephine  had  her  eyes  bent  demure- 
ly on  a  handkerchief  she  was  embroid- 
ering. 

That  evening  Camille  drew  Laure 
aside. 

"  Will  you  be  so  generous  as  to  ex- 
plain why  you  called  me  maladroit  ?  " 

"  So  it  was,"  i-eplied  Laure,  sharply. 

But  as  this  did  not  make  the  matter 
quite  clear,  Camille  begged  a  little 
further  explanation. 

"  Was  it  vour  part  to  make  diffi- 
culties?" 

"No,  indeed." 

"  Was  it  for  you  to  tell  her  a  secret 
marriige  would  not  be  delit-ale  ?  Do 
you  think  slu  will  be  behind  you  in 


18(5 


wiirn:  i.iks. 


dclicaoy  ?  or,  tliat  a  love  without  re- 
spect will  satisiy  her?  yet  you  must 
go  anil  tell  her  you  rc!<iieeted  her  too 
mueii  to  ask  her  to  marry  you  secret- 
ly. Ill  otiar  words,  situated  as  she 
is,  you  asked  her  not  to  marry  you  at 
all :  she  eonsented  to  tiiat  directly. 
What  else  eould  you  expect  f  " 

'•  Multidroit  !  indeed,"  said  Caniille, 
"  liut  I  would  not  have  said  it,  only  I 
thou;;ht  —  " 

"  You  thought  nothing  would  in- 
duce her  to  marry  secretly,  so  you  said 
to  yourself,  I  will  assume  a  virtue  : 
I  will  do  a  hit  of  cheap  self-denial! 
decline  to  the  sound  of  trumpets 
what  another  will  be  sure  to  deny  me 
if  I  don't, — ha!  ha!  —  well,  fur 
your  comfort,  I  am  by  no  means  so 
sure  she  rtiight  not  have  been  brought 
to  do  anijtiting  for  you,  except  openly 
defy  mamma  :  but  now  of  course." 

Here  this  young  lady's  sentence 
ended  :  for  there  was  a  strong  gram- 
matical likeness  between  the  sisters. 

Camille  was  so  disconcerted  and  sad 
at  what  he  had  done,  that  Laure  be- 
gan to  pity  him  :  so  she  rallied  him  a 
little  longer  in  spite  of  her  pity ;  and 
then  all  of  a  sudden  gave  him  her 
hand  and  said  she  would  try  and 
repair  the  mischief. 

He  began  to  smother  her  hand  with 
kisses. 

"  O,"  said  she,  ''  I  don't  deserve 
all  that :  I  have  a  motive  of  my  own  : 
your  unlucky  sjieech  will  be  (|Uotcd 
to  mc  a  dozen  times,  —  never  rnind." 

"  Josephine,  you  will  not  be  hajijjy 
if  you  don't,  no  more  will  he." 

Josephine  sighed. 

"  You  heard  what  he  said  ?  " 

"0,  that  was  only  to  please  you. 
lie  thought  nothing  would  tempt  you 
to  do  so  much  for  him." 

"  I  would  do  anything  for  him  but 
lose  his  respect,  and  make  my  mother 
unhappy." 

"  Well,  love,  you  shall  do  neitlier  : 
you  shall  scarcely  move  in  the  matter  : 
onlv  do  not  opjiosc  me  very  violently, 
an(i  all  will  be  well." 

"  Ah  !   Laure !    I   know   how   you 


love  me.  Am  I  not  fortunate  to  have 
a  sister  who  loves  ine,  ami  who  is  so 
shrewd  '.  it  is  delightful  —  terrible,  I 
mean — to  have  a  little  creature 
about  one  that  reads  one  like  this. 
What  shall  I  do  ?  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 
"  Yes,  .Iosc|ihine.  It  is  very  plain 
what  we  must  do  :  wc  must  conceal  it 
from  our  mother." 

"  Marry,  and  hide  my  marriage 
from  her  who  bore  me  ?  " 

"  We  have  concealed  many  things 
from  her,  dear,  not  to  give  her  pain." 
"  Yes  !    but   nothing   like   this.     I 
don't  know  what  to  do." 

"  We  must  do  the  best  wc  can 
under  all  the  circumstances.  Con- 
sider, his  wotmd  is  healed.  He  must 
go  back  to  the  army :  you  have  both 
suffered  to  the  limits  of  mortal  endur- 
ance. Is  he  to  go  away  unhappy,  in 
any  doubt  of  your  affection  ?  are  you 
to  remain  liehind  with  misery  of  self- 
reproach  added  to  the  desolation  of 
absence, —  think." 

"  Dear  Laure  ! !  Find  me  some  ex- 
cuse for  deceiving  my  mother." 

"  Do  not  say  deceiving  our  mother, 
that  is  such  a  shocking  phrase." 

Laure  then  reminded  Josephine  of 
the  day  when  Edouard  had  first  fold 
them  a  wise  reticence  was  not  the 
same  thing  as  an  immoral  deceit.  She 
reminded  her,  too,  how  after  they  had 
acted  on  his  advice  and  always  with 
good  effect,  how  many  anxieties  and 
worries  they  had  saved  their  mother, 
—  by  reticence.  Josephine  assented 
warmly  to  this. 

Was  there  not  some  reason  to  think 
they  had  saved  their  mother's  very  life 
by  "these  reticences'?  Josephine  as- 
sented. "And,  Josephine,  you  are  of 
age,  you  are  your  own  mistress,  you 
have'  a  right'  to  marry  whom  you 
plca.se  ;  and,  sooner  or  later,  you  will 
certainly  marry  Camille.  1  doubt 
whether  even  our  mother  could  pre- 
vail on  you  to  refuse  him  altogether. 
So  it  is  but  a  question  of  time,  and  of 
giving  our  mother  pain,  or  sparing  her 
pain.  She  is  old,  our  dear  mother: 
she  is  prejudiced.  Why  shock  her 
prejudices?  She  could  not  be  brought 


WHITE  LIES. 


187 


to  untlerstand  the  case  :  these  things 
never  happened  in  her  day.  Every- 
thing seems  to  have  gone  by  rule  then. 
Let  us  do  nothing  to  woiiy  iicr  for 
the  short  time  she  has  to  hvc.  Let 
us  take  a  course  between  pain  to  her 
and  cruelty  to  you  and  Camille." 

These  arguments  went  far  to  con- 
vince Josephine  ;  for  her  own  heart 
supported  tiiem.  Then  Camille  put 
in  his  word  :  he  proposed  to  the  sis- 
ters to  let  him  begin  by  entreating  the 
baroness  ;  and,  if  she  should  be  inex- 
orable, then  for  Josephine  to  marry 
him  secretly. 

"  O  no  !  "  cried  Josephine,  "  you 
shall  ask  her  if  you  please,  but  if  she 
says  no  (and  she  will  say  no),  all  is 
ended.  It  is  much  to  take  such  a 
step  without  her  sanction.  Defy  her 
I  never  will." 

"  Had  you  not  better  be  silent.  Colo- 
nel Maladroit !  "  said  Laure,  severe- 

"  Much  better  !  "  cried  the  gallant 
colonel,  hastily,  in  mortal  terror. 

Having  silenced  the  colonel,  Laure 
pleaded  his  cause  then  and  there  so 
ably,  that  Josephine  went  from  her 
solid  objections  to  untenable  ones, — a 
great  point  gained.  She  urged  the 
difficulty,  the  impossibility  of  a  secret 
marriage. 

Camille  burst  into  the  conversation 
here  :  he  undertook  at  once  to  over- 
come these  imaginary  difficulties. 

"  We  will  be  married  ten  leagues 
from  here." 

"  You  will  find  no  priest  who  will 
consent  to  do  such  a  wicked  thing  as 
marrv  us  without  my  mother's  knowl- 
edge."" 

"  0,  as  to  that,"  said  Laure,  "  you 
know  tlie  mayor  marries  people  now- 
a-days." 

"I  won't  be  married  without  a 
priest,"  said  Josephine,  sharply. 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Camille.  "  I  know 
a  mayor  who  will  do  the  civil  forms 
for  me,  and  a  priest  who  will  marry 
me  in  the  sight  of  heaven,  and  both 
will  keep  it  secret  for  love  of  me  till 
it  shall  please  Josephine  to  throw  off 
this  disguise." 


"  Who  is  the  priest,  Camille  ?  "  in- 
quired Josephine,  keenly. 

"An  old  cure  ;  he  lives  near  Fre- 
jus  ;  he  was  my  tutor,  and  the  mayor 
is  the  mayor  of  Frcjus,  also  an  old 
friend  of  mine." 

"  But  what  on  earth  will  you  sav  to 
them." 

"That  is  my  affair:  I  must  give 
them  some  reasons  which  compel  nie 
to  keep  my  marriage  secret.  O,  I 
shall  have  to  tell  them  some  fibs,  of 
course." 

"  There,  look  !  —  Camille  !  I  will 
not  have  you  tell  fibs,  —  it  lowers 
you." 

"  Of  course  it  does  ;  but  you  can't 
have  secrecy  without  a  fib  or  two." 

"  Fibs  that  will  injure  no  one,"  said 
Laure,  majestically. 

From  this  day  Camille  began  to 
act  as  well  as  to  talk.  He  bought  a 
light  caliche  and  a  powerful  horse, 
and  elected  factotum  Dard  his  groom. 
Camille  rode  over  to  Frcjus  and  told 
a  made-up  story  to  the  old  cure  and 
tlie  mayor,  and  these  his  old  friends 
believed  every  word  he  said,  and  read- 
ily promised  their  services  and  strict 
secrecy. 

He  told  the  young  ladies  what  he 
had  done. 

Laure  approved.  Josephine  shook 
her  head ;  and,  seeing  matters  going 
as  her  heart  desired  and  her  con- 
science did  not  quite  approve,  she 
suddenly  affected  to  be  next  to  no- 
body in  tlie  business,  to  be  resigned, 
passive,  and  disposed  of  to  her  sur- 
prise by  Laure  and  Camille,  without 
herself  taking  any  actual  part  in 
their  proceedings. 

At  last  the  great  day  arrived  on 
which  Camille  and  Josephine  wore  to 
be  married  at  Frcjus. 

The  mayor  awaited  them  at  eleven 
o'clock.  The  cure  at  twelve.  The 
family  had  been  prepared  for  this  ex- 
cursion by  several  smaller  ones. 

Laure  announced  their  intention 
overnight. 

"  Mamma,"  said  she,  blushing  a 
little,  "  Colonel  Dujardin  is  good 
enough  to  tike  us  to  Frejus  to-mor- 


188 


WIUTK  I.IKS. 


row.  It  is  a  lonp  way,  nnd  wc  must 
lireakfast  early,  or  wc  .shall  not  be 
back  to  iliniier." 

"  Do  so,  my  cliild.  I  liopc  you 
will  have  a  line  day  ;  and  mind  yon 
take  jiknty  of  wraps  with  you  in  case 
of  a  shower." 

"  I  will  take  care,  mamma." 

At  seven  o'clock  the  next  morninj^ 
Caniille  anil  the  two  ladies  took  a 
hasty  cup  of  cotFee  to^etiier  instead 
of  breakfast,  and  then  Dard  broui^'ht 
the  caliche  round. 

The  ladies  got  in,  and  Camillc  had 
just  taken  the  reins  in  his  hand,  when 
Jacintha  screamed  to  him  from  the 
Hall  :  "  Wait  a  moment.  Colonel  ! 
wait  a  moment !  The  doctor!  don't 
go  witiiout  the  doctor !  "  and  the 
next  moment  Doctor  St.  Aubin  aj)- 
peared  with  his  cloak  on  his  arm,  and, 
salutinf^  the  ladies  politely,  seated 
himself  quietly  in  the  vehicle  before 
the  party  had  recovered  their  sur- 
prise. 

"  Where  shall  wc  have  the  pleasure 
of  taking  j-ou  ?  "  asked  Camillc,  and 
gnawed  his  lip. 

"  To  Frejus,"  was  the  reply. 

Josephine  quaked.  Camille  was 
devoured  with  secret  rage  ;  he  lashed 
the  horse  and  away  they  went. 

It  was  a  silent  jjarty.  The  doctor 
seemed  in  a  revery.  The  others  did 
not  know  what  to  think,  much  less  to 
say.  St.  Auliin  sat  by  Camille's 
side ;  so  the  latter  could  hold  no 
secret  communication  with  either 
lady. 

Now  it  was  not  the  doctor's  habit 
to  rise  at  this  time  of  the  morning  ; 
yet  there  he  was,  going  with  them  to 
Frejus  uninvited. 

Josephine  was  in  agony  ;  had  their 
intention  transpired  through  some 
inifirudencc  of  Camille  ? 

Camille  was  terribly  uneasy.  lie 
concluded  the  secret  had  transpired 
through  female  indiscretion.  Then 
they  all  tortured  themselves  as  to  the 
old  man's  intention.  But  what 
seemed  most  likely  was,  that  he  was 
with  them    to   jjrevent   a  clandestine 


marriage  by  his  bare  presence,  with- 
out making  a  scene  and  shocking 
Josephine's  ]iridc  ;  and,  if  so,  was  he 
there  by  his  own  im])ulse  ?  No,  it 
was  rather  to  be  feared  that  all  this 
was  done  by  order  of  the  baroness. 
There  was  a  Jinvsse  about  it  thai 
looked  like  a  woman,  and  the  baron- 
ess was  very  capable  of  adopting 
such  a  means  as  this  to  spare  her 
own  pride  and  her  favorite  daughter's. 
The  clandestine  is  not  all  sugar.  A 
more  miserable  jiarty  never  went 
along,  even  to  a  wedding. 

After  waiting  a  long  time  for  the 
doctor  to  declare  himself,  they  turned 
desperate,  and  began  to  chatter  all 
manner  of  trifles.  This  had  a  good 
elFect  ;  il  roused  St.  Aubin  from  his 
revery,  and  presently  to  their  great 
surj)rise  he  gave  them  the  following 
piece  of  information  :  — 

"I  told  you  the  other  day  that  a 
nephew  of  mine  was  just  dead.  A 
nephew  I  had  not  seen  (or  many  years. 
Well,  my  friends,  I  received  last 
night  a  hasty  summons  to  his  funer- 
al." 

"At  Frejus?" 

"  No  !  at  I'aris  !  The  invitation 
was  so  pressing,  that  I  was  obliged  to 
go.  The  letter  informed  me  a  dili- 
gence pas.sed  through  Frejus,  at  eleven 
o'clock,  for  Paris.  Fortunately  you 
were  going  to  Frejus.  I  packed  uji  a 
few  changes  of  linen,  Iind  my  MS., 
my  work  on  entomology,  which  at  my 
;  last  visit  to  tiie  capital  all  the  pub- 
lishers were  mad  enough  to  refuse ; 
here  it  is.  Apropos,  has  Jacintha  put 
my  bag  into  the  carriage  ?  " 

On  this  a  fierce  foot-search,  and  the 
bag  was  found.  Meantime  Josephine 
leaned  back  in  her  seat  with  a  sigh  of 
thankfulness.  She  was  more  intent 
on  not  iM'ing  found  out  than  on  be- 
ing married.  But  Camille,  who  was 
more  intent  on  being  married  than  on 
not  being  found  out,  was  asking  him- 
self, with  fury,  how  on  earth  they 
should  get  rid  of  St.  Auliin  in  time. 

Well,  of  course,  under  such  I'ir- 
cumstancos  as  these,  the  coacii  did  not 
come  to  its  time,  nor  till  long  after; 


WHITE   LIES. 


189 


and  all  the  while  they  were  waiting 
for  it  they  were  failing  their  rendez- 
vous with  the  mayor,  and  making 
their  rendezvous  witli  the  curate  im- 
possible. But,  above  all,  there  was 
tiie  risk  of  one  or  other  of  those  friends 
coming  up  and  blurting  all  out,  tak- 
ing for  granted  that  the  doctor  must 
be  in  their  confidence,  or  why  bring 
him  ? 

At  last,  at  half  past  eleven  o'clock, 
to  their  great  relief,  up  came  the  coach. 
The  doctor  pi-epared  to  take  his  place 
in  the  interior,  when  the  conductor 
politely  informed  him  that  the  dili- 
gence stopped  there  a  quarter  of  an 
hour. 

"  In  that  case,  1  will  not  abandon 
my  friends,"  said  A\e  doctor,  affec- 
tionately. 

One  of  his  friends  gnashed  his  teeth 
at  this  mark  of  affection. 

Josephine  smiled  sweetly. 

At  last  he  was  gone ;  but  it  wanted 
ten  minutes  only  to  twelve. 

Josephine  inquired,  amiably,  wheth- 
er it  would  not  be  as  well  to  postpone 
matters  to  another  day  —  meaning 
forever. 

Camille  replied  by  dragging  them 
both  very  fast  to  the  mayor. 

That  wortiiy  received  them  with 
profound,  though  somewhat  demure 
respect,  and  invited  them  to  a  table 
sumptuously  served.  The  ladies,  out 
of  politeness,  were  about  to  assent, 
but  Camille  begged  permission  to 
postpone  that  part  until  after  the  cer- 
emony. 

At  last,  to  their  utter  wonder,  they 
were  married.  Then,  with  a  promise 
to  return  and  dine  with  the  mayor, 
they  went  to  tlie  cure.  Lo  and  be- 
hold, he  was  gone  to  visit  a  sick  per- 
son. "  He  had  waited  a  long  time  for 
them,"  said  the  servant. 

Josephine  w'as  much  disconcerted, 
and  showed  a  disposition  to  cry.  The 
servant,  a  good-natured  girl,  nosed  a 
wedding,  and  offered  to  run  and  bring 
his  reverence  in  a  minute. 

Presently  there  came  an  old,  silvery- 
haired  man,  wiio  addressed  them  all 
as  his  children,  and  seemed  to  mean 


it.  He  took  them  to  the  church,  and 
blessed  their  union  :  and  for  tlie  first 
time  Josephine  felt  as  if  Heaven  con- 
sented. They  took  a  gentle  farewell 
of  him,  and  went  back  to  tlie  mayor's 
to  dine  ;  and  at  this  stage  of  the  busi- 
ness, Laurc  and  Josephine  had  a  sud- 
den simultaneous  cry,  w/wo/ws  of  noth- 
ing that  was  then  occurring. 

This  refreshed  them,  and  they 
glowed  at  the  mayor's  table  like 
roses  washed  with  dew. 

But  O,  how  glad  at  heart  they  all 
were  to  find  themselves  in  the  carriage 
once  more  going  home  to  Beaure- 
paire. 

Laure  and  Josephine  sat  inter- 
twined on  tiie  back  seat :  Camille, 
the  reins  in  his  right  hand,  nearly 
turned  his  back  on  the  horse,  and 
leaned  back  over  t)  them,  and  talked 
with  Laure,  and  looked  at  his  wife 
ineffable  triumph  and  tenderness. 

The  lovers  were  in  Elysium,  and 
Laure  was  not  a  little  proud  of  her 
good  management  in  ending  all  their 
troubles.  Their  mother  received  them 
back  with  great,  and,  as  they  fancied, 
with  singular  affection.  She  was  be- 
ginning to  be  anxious  about  them, 
she  said.  Her  kindness  gave  these 
happy  souls  a  pang  it  never  gave 
them  before. 

Since  the  above  event  scarce  a  fort- 
night had  elapsed  :  but  such  a  change. 
Camille  sunburnt  and  healthy,  and 
full  of  animation  and  confidence  :  Jo- 
sephine beaming  with  suppressed 
happiness,  and  more  beautiful  than 
even  Laure  could  ever  remember  to 
have  .«een  her.  For  a  soft  halo  of 
love  and  happiness  shone  around  her 
head  :  a  new  and  indefinable  attrac- 
tion bloomed  on  her  face.  She  was  a 
wife.  Her  eye,  that  used  to  glance 
furtively  on  Camille,  now  dwelt  de- 
murely on  him,  —  dwelt  on  him  with 
a  sort  of  gentle  wonder  and  surprised 
admiration  as  well  as  affection ;  and 
when  he  came  or  passed  near  her,  a 
keen  observer  might  just  have  seen 
her   thrill. 

Slie  kejit  a  good  deal  out  of  her 
mother's  wav  :  for  she  felt  within  that 


11)0 


w  iiiii;  i,ii;s. 


her  fare  imi^t  1)C  loo  liajipy.  Slio 
fonrcil  to  shock  licr  niotlicr's  Krief 
with  her  ra<liance.  She  was  asliained 
of  fcflin^  uninixr<I  lii-aviii.  IJiit  the 
flood  of  si'crot  l)liss  she  lloatcd  in  bore 
all  misgivin;rs  away.  The  ]>air  were 
forever  Htealinj;  away  t();:ether  for 
hours,  and  on  these  occasions  Laurc 
was  to  keej)  out  of  her  niotlier's  si;;iit, 
until  they  should  return.  So  then 
tlie  new  married  couple  couhl  wander 
hand  and  hand  througli  the  thick 
woods  of  Ik'aurepaire,  whose  fresh 
•rrecn  leaves  were  now  just  out,  and 
hear  the  distant  cuckoo,  and  sit  on 
mossy  banks,  an<l  pour  love  into  one 
another's  eyes,  and  plan  ajrcs  of  hap- 
piness, and  murmur  their  deep  passion 
and  their  hliss  almost  more  than  mor- 
tal :  could  tlo  all  this  and  more,  with- 
out shockinir  propriety.  These  sweet 
duets  ])assod  tor  trios  ;  fur  on  their  ic- 
turn  Laurc  would  he  looking  out  for 
them,  or  would  i;o  and  meet  them  at 
some  distance,  and  all  three  would  go 
up  togctlier  to  the  baroness,  as  from  a 
j(jint  excursion.  And  then,  when  they 
went  up  to  their  bedrooms,  Josephine 
would  throw  her  arms  round  her  sis- 
ter's neck,  and  sigh  :  "  It  is  not  hap- 
piness, —  it  is  beatitude  ! !  " 

Meantime  the  baroness  mourned 
for  Kaynal.  Her  grief  showed  no  de- 
crease. Laurc  even  fancied  at  times 
she  wore  a  gloomy  and  discontented 
look  as  well :  hut  on  rellection  slie  at- 
tributed that  to  her  own  fancy,  or  to 
the  contra<t  that  had  now  sprung  up 
in  her  sister's  beaming  complacency. 

Laurc  herself,  when  she  found  her- 
self day  alter  day  alone  for  hours, 
was  sad  and  thought  of  E<louard. 
And  this  feeling  gained  on  her  day 
by  day. 

At  last  one  afternoon  she  locked 
herself  in  her  own  room,  and  after  a 
long  contest  with  her  pride,  which  if 
not  indomitable  was  next  door  to  it, 
she  sat  down  to  write  him  a  little  let- 
ter. Now  in  this  letter,  in  the  place 
devoted  hymen  to  their  after-thoughts, 
by  women  to  their  pretended  after- 
thoughts, i.  e.  to  what  they  have  been 
thinking  of  all   through   the   letter, 


she  dropped  a  careless  hint  that  all 
the  jjaity  mis.sed  him  very  much, 
"  even  tlie  (Jmorioiis  colonel,  who  hi/  the 
III/  /las  trtinsjirrril  lil.t  sircices  ilsi ir/irre. 
I  lidir  /bri/icen  him  that,  IxciiHsc  he  litis 
siiitl  rini  lliiuijs  nlxnil  you." 

Laur-  was  reading  her  letter  over 
again,  to  make  sure  that  all  the  jirin- 
eijial  expressions  were  indistinct,  and 
that  the  composition  generally  excej)t 
the  postscrijit  resembled  a  l)el|)hic 
oracle,  when  there  was  a  liasty  foot- 
step, and  tap  at  her  door. 

"  Come  in  " ;  and  in  came  Jaciniha, 
excited. 

"  He  is  come,  Mademoiselle  Laurc," 
cried  she,  and  nodded  her  head  like  a 
mandarin,  only  more  knowingly  : 
then  she  added,  "so  you  n«iy  iturn 
the  letter."  Tor  her  quick  eye  had 
glanced  at  the  tal)le. 

"Who  is  come?"  inquired  Laurc, 
eagerly. 

"  Why,  your  one." 

"  My  one  ?  "  asked  the  young  lady, 
reddening,  "my  what  ?  " 

"  The  little  one,  —  TIdouard,  — 
Monsieur    Riviere." 

"  Monsieur  Hiviere  !  "  cried  Laure, 
acting  a!.'rceal)le  surprise.  "  I  am  so 
glad.  Why  could  you  not  say  so : 
you  use  such  phrases  it  is  impossible 
to  conjecture  who  you  mean.  I  will 
come  to  Monsieur  Riviere  directly  : 
mamma  will  be  so  glad." 

Jaciniha  gone,  Laure  tore  up  the 
letter  and  lockeil  up  the  jiicces,  —  tiieu 
tore  to  the  glass. 

Etc. 

Edouard  was  so  thoroughly  misera- 
ble that  he  could  stand  it  no  longer  : 
so  in  spite  of  his  determination  not  to 
visit  IJeaurepaire  while  it  contained  a 
rival,  he  rode  over  to  see  whether  he 
had  not  tormented  himself  idly  :  above 
all,  to  .sec  the  beloved  face. 

Jacintha  put  him  into  the  salle  a 
manfjer. 

"  IJy  that  you  will  see  her  alone," 
said  the  knowing  Jacintha. 

He  sat  down,  hat  and  whip  in  hand, 
and  wondered  how  he  should  be  re- 
ceived. 

In   glides   Laure,   all  sprightliness 


WHITE  LIES. 


191 


and  gootl-liumor,  and  puts  out  lier 
li;ind  to  him  :  the  which  he  ivisses. 

"  How  could  I  keep  away  so  lon^  1 " 
asked  he,  va<;ucly,  and  self-astonished. 

"How  indeed,  and  wo  missing  you 
so  all  the  time  !  " 

"  Have  you  missed  mc  ?  "  was  the 
eager  inquiry. 

"  O  no  !  "  was  the  cheerful  reply, 
"  but  all  the  rest  have." 

Presently  the  malicious  thing  gave 
a  sudden  start. 

"  0,  such  a  piece  of  news  :  you  re- 
member Colonel  Dujardin,  —  the  ob- 
noxious colonel  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  Transferred  his  attentions,  sir,  — 
fancy !  " 

"  "Who  to  ?  " 

"  To  Josephine  and  mamma.  But 
such  are  the  miliiary.  He  only  want- 
ed to  get  rid  of  you  :  this  done 
(through  your  want  of  spirit),  he 
scorns  the  rich  prize  :  so  no^v  I  scorn 
him,  —  will  you  come  for  a  walk  ?  " 

"  O  yes  !  " 

"  We  will  go  and  look  for  my  de- 
serter. I  say,  tell  me  now  :  cannot  I 
write  to  the  commander-in-chief  about 
this  ?  when  all  is  done  a  soldier  has 
no  right  to  be  a  deserter,  —  has  he  7 
tell  me,  you  are  a  public  man,  and 
know  everything,  —  except  —  ha  ! 
ha !  " 

"  Is  it  not  too  bad  to  tease  me  to- 
dayl" 

"  Yes  !  but  let  me  do  it.  I  do  like 
it  so.  Please,  I  have  had  few  amuse- 
ments of  late." 

"  Yes,  you  shall  tease  me.  I  feel  I 
desen-e  no  mercy." 

Formal  permission  to  tease  being 
conceded,  she  went  that  instant  on  the 
opposite  tack,  and  began  to  tell  him 
how  she  had  missed  him,  and  how 
sorry  she  had  been  anything  should 
have  occurred  to  vex  tiieir  kind  good 
friend.  In  short,  Edouard  spent  a 
delightful  day,  for  Laure  took  him  one 
way  to  meet  Josephine,  who  she  knew 
was  coming  another.  When  the 
whole  party  assembled,  the  last  embers 
of  jealousy  were  queufhed,  for  Jo- 
sephine  was   a    wife    now    and    had 


already  begun  to  tell  Camille  all  her 
little  innocent  secrets  ;  and  she  had 
told  him  all  about  Edouard  and  Lanre, 
and  had  given  him  his  orders  :  so  he 
treated  Laure  with  great  respect  before 
Edouard  ;  but  paid  her  no  marked 
attention  :  also  he  was  affable  to 
Kiviere,  who,  having  ceased  to  sus- 
pect, began  to  like  him. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening,  the 
colonel  also  informed  the  baroness 
that  he  expected  every  day  an  order  to 
join  the  army  of  the  Rhine. 

Edouard  pricked  his  ears. 

The  baroness  said  no  more  than 
politeness  dictated.  She  did  not  press 
him  to  stay,  hut  treated  his  departure 
as  a  matter  of  course.  Riviere  rode 
home  late  iu  the  evening  in  high 
spirits. 

The  next  day,  Laure  varied  her  late 
deportment :  she  sang  snatches  of 
melody,  going  about  the  house :  it 
was  for  all  the  world  like  a  bird  chirp- 
ing. In  the  middle  of  one  chirp  Ja- 
cintha  interfered.  "  Hush,  mademoi- 
selle, your  mamma  !  she  is  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  corridor." 

"What  am  I  thinking  of?"  said 
Laure,  "  to  sing  !  " 

"  O,  I  dare  say  you  know,  madem- 
oiselle," replied  the  privileged  domes- 
tic. 

A  letter  of  good  news  came  from 
St.  Aubin.  It  was  not  for  nothing 
that  summons  to  his  nephew's  funer- 
al. 

The  said  nephew  was  a  rich  man 
and  an  oddity  ;  one  of  those  who  love 
to  surprise  folk,  and  hate  to  be  fore- 
seen and  calculated  upon.  Moreover, 
he  had  no  children,  and  detected  his 
nephews  and  nieces  being  civil  and  at- 
tentive to  him.  "  Waiting  to  cut  me 
up !  "  was  his  generous  reading  of 
them.  So  with  all  this  he  turned  res- 
tive, and  made  a  will,  and  there  defied, 
as  far  as  in  hiin  lay,  the  laws  of  na- 
ture. 

For  lie  set  his  wealth  a  flowing 
backwards  instead  of  forwards, 

lie  handed  his  property  up  to  an  an- 
cestor, instead  of  down  to  posterity. 

All   this    the    doctor   related   with 


102 


Will  IK   LIES. 


some  humor,  arm  in  tlic  calm  sjiirit 
with  which  a  ^fmiiiic  |)hiloso|ihcr 
receives  prosj)Ciity  as  well  iis  nclver- 
sity. 

One  little  rej^ret  escaped  him  :  that 
all  this  wealth,  since  it  was  to  come, 
had  not  come  one  litilc  half-year 
sooner. 

All  at  Bcaurepairc  knew  what  their 
dear  old  friend  meant. 

He  addecl  tliat  the  affairs  would  be 
woimd  up  hy  tlie  lawyers,  and  it  would 
take  twelve  months.  He  was,  there- 
fore, free  ;  and  tliey  mij^ht  expect  him 
any  day  after  this  letter. 

So  here  was  another  cause  of  re- 
joicinn;. 

"  I  am  so  plad,"  said  Josephine. 
"  Now  j)erh:ij)s  he  will  lie  able  to  pul)- 
lish  his  j)oor,  dear  Entomology,  tliat 
the  hooksellcrs  were  all  so  unkind,  so 
unfeeling  about." 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

It  was  a  fair  morninjj  in  June  :  the 
sky  was  a  bright,  deep,  lovely,  speck- 
less  blue :  the  flowers  and  bushes 
poured  perfume  and  sprinkled  .sonji 
upon  the  balmy  air.  On  such  a  day, 
—  so  calm,  so  warm,  so  bright,  so 
scented,  so  tuneful,  —  to  live  and  to 
he  young  is  to  be  hapi>y.  With  gen- 
tle hand  it  wipes  all  otlier  days  out  of 
the  memory  ;  it  laugh«,  and  clouds 
and  rain  ami  biting  wind  seem  as  far 
ofl^  and  as  impossible  as  grief  and  trou- 
ble. 

Camille  and  Josephine  had  stolen 
out,  and  strolled  lazily  up  and  down 
dose  under  the  house,  drinking  the 
sweet  air,  fragrant  with  ])crfuine  and 
melody,  the  blue  sky,  and  love. 

Laure  was  in  the  house.  She  liad 
missed  them  ;  but  she  thought  they 
must  be  near :  for  they  seldom  took 
long  walks  early  in  the  day.  IVfeeting 
Jacintha  on  the  landing  of  the  great 
staircase,  she  asked  her  where  her  sis- 
ter was. 

"  Madame  Raynal  is  gone  for  a 
walk,  Mademoiselle  Laure." 


"  Alone  ?  " 

"0  no,  mademoiselle.  S!ie  look 
the  colonel  with  licr.  You  know  she 
always  takes  the  colonel  out  wiih  her 
now." 

"  That  will  do.  You  can  finish 
your  work." 

Jacintha  went  into  Camille's  room. 

L.'iurc,  who  had  looked  as  grave  a.s 
a  judge  while  Jacintha  was  present, 
bubbled  into  laughter.  She  even  rc- 
l)eated  Jacintha  aloud  and  chuckled 
over  them  :  "  You  know  she  always 
takes  the  colonel  out  with  her  now,  — 
ha  !  ha  !  ha !  " 

"  Laure  !  "  cried  a  distant  voice. 

Laure  looked  roimd,  and  saw  the 
baroness,  nt  some  ili'-tance  in  the  cor- 
ridor, coming  slowly  towards  her,  with 
eyes  bent  gloomily  on  the  ground. 
Laure  composed  her  features  into  a 
.settled  gravity,  and  went  to  meet 
her. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  with  you,  my 
daughter  ! " 

"  Yes,  mamma." 

"  Let  us  sit  down  :  it  is  cool  here." 

Laure  ran  and  brought  a  seat  with- 
out a  back,  but  well  stuffed,  and  set 
it  against  the  wall.  The  old  ladvsat 
down  and  leaned  back,  anil  looked  at 
Laure  in  silence  a  good  while  :  then 
she  said  :  — 

"  There  is  room  for  you  ;  sit  down, 
my  youngest." 

"  Yes,  dear  mamma." 

"  I  want  to  speak  seriously  to  you." 

"  Yes,  my  mother  :  what  is  it  ?  " 

"Turn  a  little  round,  and  let  me 
see  your  face." 

"  There,  mamma." 

"  Pel  haps  you  can  guess  what  I  am 
going  to  say  to  you  ?  " 

"  No  !  there  arc  so  many  things." 

"  Well,  I  am  going  to  put  a  ques- 
tion to  you." 

"  Yes,  mamma." 

"  I  invite  you  to  explain  to  mc  the 
most  singidar,  the  most  unaccounta- 
ble thing  that  ever  fell  under  my  no- 
tice. Will  yuu  do  this  for  your 
mother  1  " 

"  O  mamma,  of  course  I  will  do 
anything  to  please  you  that  I  can  : 


WHITE  LIES. 


193 


but  indeed  I  don't  know  what  you  al- 
lude to." 

"  I  am  goine;  to  tell  you." 

The  old  lady  paused.  The  young 
one  felt  a  chill  of  vague  anxiety  strike 
across  her  frame. 

"  Laure,"  said  the  old  lady,  speak- 
ing very  gently  but  firmly,  and  lean- 
ing in  a  peculiar  way  on  her  words, 
while  her  eye  worked  like  an  ice  gim- 
let on  her  daughter's  face,  "  a  little 
while  ago,  —  when  my  poor  Raynal 

—  our  benefactor  —  was  alive  —  and 
I  was  happy  —  you  all  chilled  my 
happiness  by  your  gloom  :  the  whole 
house  seemed   a  house  of  mourning, 

—  tell  me  now  why  was  this  ?  " 

"  Mamma  !  "  said  Laure,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  "  we  could  hard- 
ly be  gay.  Sickness  in  the  house  ! 
And  if  Colonel  Raynal  was  alive,  still 
he  was  absent,  and  in  danger." 

"  0,  then  it  was  out  of  regard  for 
him  we  were  all  dispirited  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  Laure,  faintly. 
She  congratulated  herself  that  her 
mother's  suspicion  was  confined  to 
past  events. 

"  Good  !  "  said  the  baroness.  "  In 
that  case,  tell  me  why  is  it  that,  ever 
since  that  black  day  when  the  news 
of  his  death  reached  us,  the  whole 
house  has  gone  into  black,  and  has 
gone  out  of  mourning  ?  " 

"  Mamma,"  stammered  Laure, 
"  what  do  you  mean  1  " 

"  Even  poor  Camille,who  was  so  pale 
and  wan,  has  recovered  like  magic." 

"  0  mamma,  is  not  that  fancy  ?  " 

"  Humph  1  it  may  be,  —  or  may 
not:  but  the  rest  is  certain.  I  have 
seen  the  change  :  at  first  I  doubled 
my  senses,  and  that  is  why  I  said 
nothing.  I  waited  to  be  sure,  —  and 
now  I  am  sure.  So  tell  me.  Do  you 
hesitate  ?  Is  it  come  to  this,  then  ? 
has  my  youngest  secrets  from  her 
mother  1 " 

"  0  mamma,  —  pray  !  pray  .'  do 
not  scold  me  !  You  will  break  my 
heart !  Of  what  do  you  suspect  me  ? 
Can  you  think  I  am  unfeeling,  un- 
grateful ?  I  should  not  be  your  daugh- 
ter!" 


"  My  child,"  said  the  baroness,  "  I 
have  not  scolded  you.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  see  you  attempt  sorrow  as 
you  put  on  black.  My  Laure  is  too 
right-minded  not  to  do  this." 

"  Thank  you,  mamma,"  said  Laure, 
humbly. 

"  But,  my  poor  child,  you  do  it 
with  so  little  skill  that  I  see  a  horrible 
gayety  breaking  through  that  thin 
disguise  :  you  are  not  true  mourners  : 
you  are  like  the  mutes  or  the  under- 
takers at  a  funeral,  forced  grief  on  the 
surface  of  your  faces,  and  frightful 
complacencv  below." 

"Tra  la!  lal!  la!  la!  Tra  la!  la! 
Tra  la !  la  !  "  carolled  Jaciutha,  in 
the  colonel's  room  hard  by. 

The  ladies  looked  at  one  another  : 
Laure  in  great  confusion. 

"  Tra  la  !  la  !  la  !  Tra  lal !  lal ! 
la!  la!  la!" 

"  Jacintha  !  "  screamed  Laure, 
angrily. 

"  Hush  !  not  a  word  to  her,"  said 
the  baroness  ;  and  when  Jacintha  ap- 
peared on  the  threshold,  in  answer  to 
the  summons,  she  sent  her  down  to 
do  her  own  room. 

"  Why  remonstrate  with  hrr  1 
Servants  are  like  chameleons  :  they 
take  the  tone  of  those  they  serve. 
Do  not  cry!  I  wanted  your  confi- 
dence, not  your  tears,  love.  There, 
I  will  not  twice  in  one  day  ask  you 
for  your  heart,  it  would  be  to  lower 
the  mother,  and  give  the  daughter  the 
pain  of  refusing  it,  and  the  regret,  sure 
to  come  one  day,  of  having  refused 
it.  I  will  discover  the  meaning  of 
it  all  myself    Kiss  me,  my  youngest." 

"  O  mamma !  mamma  !  " 

"  There,  the  e,  dry  your  eyes,  and 
go  out  into  the  garden  this  fine  day. 
I  shall  be  sure  to  find  it  out  without 
tormenting  you  any  more,  my  be- 
loved. Stay !  you  can  tell  all  who 
respect  "le,  it  will  be  as  well  to  try  at 
least  and  mourn  the  death  of  mv  dear 
son." 

"  Yes,  Camille,  all  is  lovely,  all  is 
hajjpy ;  but  one  sad  thought  will 
come.     Ytru  will  leave  me." 


104 


AVIIITK   LIKS. 


"Not  to-dnv." 

"  How  likc'ii  soldier  that  is  !  " 

"  It  is  triK-,"  said  Camillc  :  "  the 
fact  is,  >vc  arc  seldom  sine  of  a  d:i_v  : 
I  mean  when  wc  are  untlcr  anns." 

"  Must  you  po  at  all  ?  Must  you 
risk  njrain  the  life  on  wliich  my  life 
depends  1  " 

"  My  dear,  that  letter  I  received 
from  heafl-^iuarters  two  days  aj^o, 
that  inquiry  vlieiher  i7iy  wound  was 
cured.  A  hint,  Joscjihine, — a  hint 
too  broad  for  any  soldier  not  to 
take." 

"  Camille.  you  are  very  proud/' 
said  Josephine,  with  an  accent  of  re- 
proach, and  a  look  of  approval. 

"  I  am  ohlirjcd  to  he.  I  am  the 
husband  of  the  proudest  woman  in 
France." 

"  Hush  !  not  so  loud  :  there  is  Dard 
on  the  jrrass." 

"  Dard  !  "  muttered  the  soldier, 
with  a  world  of  meaning. 

There  was  a  sudden  silence  be- 
tween the  lovers.     Camille  l)roke  it. 

"  Josephine,"  said  he,  a  little  pee- 
vishly, "  how  much  lonjrer  are  wc  to 
lower  our  voices,  and  turn  away  our 
eyes  from  each  other,  and  be  ashamed 
of  our  happiness  1  " 

"  P'ive  months  lonfrer  ;  is  it  not?  " 
answered  Josephine,  (juietly. 

"Five  months  lonjrer! ! !  " 

"Is  this  just,  Camille?  Think  of 
two  months  ago :  yes,  yes,  two 
months  ago,  you  were  dying.  You 
doubted  my  love,  l>ecause  it  could 
not  overcome  my  virtue  and  my  grat- 
itude ;  yet  you  might  have  seen  it 
was  destroying  my  life.  Poor  Kay- 
nal,  my  husband,  my  benefactor, 
died !  Then  I  could  do  more  for 
you,  if  not  with  delicacy,  at  least  with 
honor ;  but  no !  words  and  looks, 
and  tender  offices  of  love,  were  not 
enough,  I  must  give  stronger  proof. 
Dear  Camille,  I  have  been  reared  in 
a  strict  school :  and  jKsrhaps  none  of 
your  sex  can  know  what  it  cost  me 
to  go  to  Fr-jus  that  day  with  him  I 
love  !  " 

"  My  own  Josephine  !  " 

"  I  made  but  one  condition  :  that 


you  would  not  rob  mo  of  my  moth* 
cr's  resjKJct :  to  her,  such  a  marriage 
would  ap|)ear  monstrotis,  heartless. 
You  consented  to  lie  secretly  ha|)j)v 
for  six  months.  One  fortnight  has 
passed,  and  you  arc  discontented 
again." 

"  O  no  !  do  not  think  so.  It  is 
every  word  true.  I  am  an  ungrateful 
villain !  " 

"  You,  Camille  ?  how  dare  you  sny 
so  ?  and  to  me  !  No  !  I  have  thought, 
and  I  have  discovered  the  reason  of 
all  this,  —  you  are  a  man  !  !  !  " 

"  So  I  liavc  been  told  :  but  my 
conduct  to  you,  sweet  one,  has  not 
lx;en  that  of  a  num  from  first  to  hist. 
Yet  I  could  die  for  you,  with  a  smile 
on  my  lips.  IJut  when  I  think  that 
once  I  lifted  this  sacrilegious  hand 
against  your  life,  — oh  !  " 

"  Do  not  be  silly,  Camille.  I  love 
you  all  the  Ijctter  for  loving  mc  well 
enough  to  kill  me." 

"  The  greater  shame  of  mc  who  am 
vour  husband,  vet  am  —  " 

"Hush!" 

"  Discontented,  —  what  a  scoun- 
drel ! " 

"  I  tell  you,  you  foolish  thing,  you 
arc  a  man  :  monseigneur  is  one  of  the 
lordly  sex,  that  is  accustomed  to  have 
everything  quite  its  own  way.  My 
lovej  in  a  world  that  is  full  of  misery, 
here  are  two  that  are  condemned  to  be 
secretly  hajipy  a  few  months  longer  : 
a  hard  fate  for  one  of  your  sex  it 
seems  ;  but  it  is  so  much  sweeter  than 
the  usual  lot  of  mine,  that  really  I 
cannot  share  your  misery  " ;  and  she 
smileil  joyously. 

"  Theti  share  my  happiness,  my 
dear  wife." 

"  Hush  !  not  so  loud  !  " 

"  Why,  Dard  is  gone,  and  we  are 
out  of  doors,  will  the  little  birds  be- 
tray us  1  " 

"  The  lower  windows  are  open, 
and  I  saw  Jacintha  in  one  of  the 
rooms." 

"  Jacintha  ? ! !  we  are  in  awe  of  the 
vcrj-  servants  !  !  !  Well,  if  I  must 
not  say  it  loud,  I  will  say  it  often," 
and,  putting  his  mouth  to  her  ear,  he 


AVHITE  LIES. 


195 


poured  a  burning  whisper  of  love  into 
it :  "  My  love  !  my  angel !  my  wife  ! 
my  wife  !  my  wife !  " 

She  turned  her  swimming  eyes  on 
him. 

"  My  hu.^haad  !  "  she  whispered  in 
return. 

Laure  came  ont  and  found  them 
almost  literally  billing  and  cooing. 
She  looked  into  their  beaming  faces, 
and  said  pettishly  :  — 

"  You  must  not  be  so  happy,  you 
two  !  " 

"  We  can't  help  it." 

"  You  must  and  shall  help  it  ; 
Josephine,  our  mother  has  reproached 
me  with  the  joy  she  sees  around  her. 
She  suspects." 

"  She  has  spoken  to  you  ?  Your 
eyes  are  red.  She  has  found  me 
out?" 

"  No !  not  so  bad  as  that.  Come 
away  from  the  house  a  little  way,  and 
1  '11  tell  you." 

"  After  all,"  said  Laure,  as  soon  as 
they  got  into  tlie  park,  "  why  conceal 
the  truth  from  her  any  longer  ?  She 
will  forgive  us." 

"  Take  care,  Laure,"  said  Camille, 
slyly,  "  I  have  just  offbnded  her  by  a 
word  of  the  kind." 

"  How  can  I  tell  my  mother  that 
within  six  weeks  of  my  husband's 
death  — 7" 

"  Don't  say  your  husband,"  put  in 
Cumille,  wincing ;  "  the  priest  never 
confirmed  that  union  :  words  spoken 
before  a  magistrate  do  not  make  a 
marriage  in  tiie  sight  of  Heaven." 

Josephine  cut  him  sliort. 

"Amongst  honorable  men  and  wo- 
men all  oaths  arc  alike  sacred  :  and 
Heaven's  eye  is  in  a  magistrate's  room 
as  in  a  church.  A  daughter  of  the 
house  of  Beaurepairc  gave  her  liand 
to  Captain  Raynal,  and  called  lierself 
his  wife.  Therefore  she  was  his  wife, 
and  is  his  widow.  She  owes  him 
everytiiing  ;  the  iiouse  you  are  all  liv- 
ing in,  among  the  rest.  She  ought  to 
be  proud  of  her  brief  connection  with 
that  pure,  heroic  spirit,  and,  when 
she  is  so  little  noble  as  to  disown  iiim, 
then  say  that   gratitude  and  justice 


have  no  longer  a  place  among  man- 
kind ! " 

"  Come  into  the  chapel,"  said  Ca- 
mille, with  a  voice  that  sliowed  he 
was  hurt. 

They  entered  the  chapel,  and  there 
they  saw  something  that  thorougidy 
surprised  them.  A  marble  monument 
to  the  memory  of  Raynal.  It  leaned 
at  present  against  the  wall  below  the 
place  prepared  to  receive  it.  The  in- 
scription, short,  but  emphatic,  and 
full  of  feeling,  told  of  the  battles  he 
had  fought  in,  including  the  last  fatal 
skirmish,  and  his  marriage  with  the 
heiress  of  Beaurepaire  ;  and,  in  a  few 
soldier-like  words,  the  uprightness, 
simplicity,  and  generosity  of  his  char- 
acter. 

The  girls  were  so  touched  by  this 
unexpected  trait  in  Camille,  that  they 
threw  their  arms  round  his  neck  by 
one  impulse. 

"  Am  I  wrong  to  be  proud  of 
him?"  said  Josephine,  triumphantly. 
"  You  conquered  yourself  here,  my 
brave  soldier ! " 

"  Do  not  praise  m3,"  said  Camille, 
looking  down  confused.  "  One  tries 
to  be  good  ;  but  it  is  very  hard,  —  to 
some  of  us,  —  not  to  you,  Josephine ; 
and,  after  all,  it  is  only  the  truth  that 
we  have  written  on  that  stone.  Poor 
Raynal !  lie  was  my  old  comrade  ;  he 
saved  me  from  death,  and  not  a  sol- 
dier's death,  —  drowning  ;  and  he  was 
a  better  man  than  I  am,  or  ever  shall 
be.  Now  he  is  dead,  I  can  say  these 
things.  If  I  had  said  them  wlien  he 
was  alive,  it  would  have  beeu  more  to 
ray  credit." 

Further  comment  was  cut  short  by 
two  workmen,  who  came  in  with  a 
pail  of  li(juid  cement,  to  place  and  fix 
the  slab. 

Camille  and  the  ladies  went  back 
towards  the  house ;  and  then,  as  praise 
seemed  to  make  Camille  uncomforta- 
ble, they  naturally  fell  upon  the  other 
topic. 

Laure  told  them  all  that  had 
passed  between  the  baroness  and  her. 
When  Laure  came  to  tlie  actual  de- 
tails  of    that    conversation,   to    the 


196 


WIIITK  LIKS. 


words,  and  looks,  and  tones,  Jose- 
jjliinc's  iinciisiiicss  roso  to  an  ovcr- 
powerinf;  height. 

"  We  have  undorriUed  mamma's 
shrewdness.     What  shall  I  do?  " 

"  Better  tell  her  than  let  her  find 
out,"  said  Luure.  "  We  must  tell  her 
some  day." 

At  last,  after  a  hn^  and  agitated 
discussion,  Josephine  consented  ;  hut 
Laure  must  be  the  one  to  tell  all  to 
the  baroness. 

"  80,  then,  you  at  least  will  make 

Jour  peace  with  mamma,"  ar^rucd 
osephinc,  "  and  let  us  po  in  ami  do 
this  before  our  courage  fails  ;  besides, 
it  is  goint;  to  rain,  and  it  has  turned 
cold.  Wlicre  have  all  these  clouds 
come  from  ?  An  hour  ago  there  was 
not  one  in  the  sky  !  " 

They  went,  with  hesitating  steps 
and  guilty  looks,  to  the  saloon.  Their 
mother  was  not  there.     A  reprieve. 

Laure  had  an  idea.  "  No,  I  will  not 
tell  her  here.  I  will  ask  her  to  go  out 
with  me  ;  and  then  I  will  take  her  to 
the  chapel,  and  show  her  the  monu- 
ment, and  then  she  will  be  so  pleased 
with  poor  Camillc  :  after  that,  when 
she  is  softened,  I  will  begin  by  telling 
her  all  the  misery  you  have  both  gone 
through  ;  and,  when  she  pities  you, 
then  I  will  show  her  it  was  all  my 
fault  your  misery  ended  in  a  secret 
marriage." 

"  Ah,  Laure !  you  arc  my  guardian 
angel.  I  feel  cold  at  what  is  coming: 
it  is  very  good  of  you  to  make  the 
plunge  tor  us.  After  all,  to-morrow 
must  come  !  To-morrow  we  shall  be 
no  longer  playing  a  part,  and  hiding 
our  hearts  from  our  dear  mother.  It 
will  seem  like  a  return  to  nature  to  be 
once  more  all  open  to  her,  as  we  used 
to  be  till  this  last  twelvemonth." 

Laure  assented  warmly  to  this,  and 
the  confederates  sat  there  waiting  for 
the  baroness.  At  last,  as  she  did  not 
come,  Laure  rose  to  go  to  her. 
"  When  the  mind  is  made  up,  it  is  no 
use  being  cowardly  and  putting  off," 
said  she,  (irmly.  For  all  that,  her  cheek 
h.id  but  little  color  left  in  it  when 
she  left  her  chair  with  this  resolve. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

Now  it  happened  a.s  Laure  went 
down  the  long  salon  to  carry  out 
their  united  resolve,  that  Jacintha 
looked  in  ;  and,  after  a  hasty  glance 
to  see  who  was  jirescnt,  she  waited 
till  Laure  came  up  to  her,  and  then 
she  drew  a  letter  from  under  her 
apron  ami  gave  it  her. 

"  A  letter  for  my  mistress,"  said 
she,  with  an  air  of  mystery. 

"  Why  not  take  it  to  her,  then  ?  " 

"I  thought  you  miuht  like  to  sec 
it  first,  mademoiselle,"  said  she,  with 
a  quiet  meaning. 

"  A  letter  for  our  mother,  Jo- 
sephine, that  is  alW" 

"Is  it  from  the  dear  doctor?" 
asked  Josephine. 

"  La,  no,  mademoiselle,"  said  Ja- 
cintha :  "  don't  you  know  the  doctor  is 
come  home  '.  Why,  he  has  been  in 
the  house  near  an  hour.  He  is  with 
my  lady." 

The  doctor  entered  the  room  at 
this  very  moment.  Laure  threw 
down  the  letter,  and  she  and  the 
whole  ]>arty  were  instantly  occupied 
in  greeting  him. 

When  they  had  all  shaken  hands 
with  him,  and  welcomed  him  again 
and  again,  Laure  remembered  the 
letter,  and  took  it  uj)  to  carry  to  the 
baroness.  Looking  at  it  then  more 
closely,  she  uttered  an  exclamation 
and  beckoned  the  doctor  hastily. 

He  came  to  her ;  and  she  put  tho 
letter  into  his  hand. 

He  i)ut  up  his  glasses  and  eyed 
it. 

"  Yes !  "  whispered  he,  "  it  is  from 
him." 

Josephine  and  Camillc  saw  some- 
thing was  going  on  :  they  joined  the 
other  two  with  curiosity  in  their 
faces. 

Laure   put   her  hand   on   a  small 
table  near  her  and  leaned  a  moment. 
'  She  turned  half  sick  at  a  letter  com- 
ing from  the  dead. 

"  My  love  !  my  Laure !  "  cried  Jo- 
sephine, with  great  concern,  "  what 
is  the  matter  ?  " 


WHITE   LIES. 


197 


"My  poor  friends,"  said- the  doc- 
tor, soleinnlv,  "  this  is  one  of  tliose 
fearful  thin<^s  that  you  iiave  not  seen 
in  your  short  lives,  hut  it  lias  been 
more  than  once  my  lot  to  witness  it. 
The  ships  that  carry  letters  from  dis- 
tant countries  vary  greatly  in  speed, 
and  are  subject  to  detaining  acci- 
dents. Yes !  this  is  tiie  tiiird  time  I 
liave  seen  a  letter  come  written  by  a 
hand  known  to  be  cold.  Tlie  baron- 
ess is  a  little  excited  to-day,  I  don't 
know  from  what  cause.  With  your 
approbation,  Madame  Raynal,  I  will 
read  this  letter  before  I  let  her  see  it." 

"  Read  it,  doctor." 

"  Shall  I  read  it  out  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  There  may  be  some 
wish  expressed  in  it:  and  the  last 
wishes  of  a  hero  are  sacred." 

Camille,  from  delicacy,  retired  to 
some  little  distance,  and  the  doctor 
read  the  letter  in  a  low  and  solemn 
voice. 

"  J^fy  dear  mother :  — I  hope  fill  are 
well  at  Beaurepnire  as  I  am,  or  I  hope 
soon  to  be.  I  received  a  ivound  in  our 
last  skirmish :  not  a  very  severe  one  : 
but  it  put  an  end  to  my  writing  for  some 
time." 

"  Poor  fellow !  it  was  his  death- 
w'ound.  Why,  wiien  was  this  writ- 
ten ?  —  why  ■?  "  and  the  doctor  paused 
and  seemed  stupefied :  "  why,  my 
dears,  has  my  memory  gone,  or  —  " 
and  again  he  looked  eagerly  at  the 
letter,  "  for  God's  sake,  what  was  the 
date  of  the  battle  in  which  he  was 
killed :  for  this  letter  is  dated  the 
15th  of  May.  Is  it  a  dream? — no! 
—  this  was  written  since  his  death." 

"  No,  doctor,"  said  Camille,  hasti- 
ly, "  you  deceive  yourself." 

"  Why,  what  was  the  date  of  the 
Moniteur,  then  1 "  asked  St.  Aubin,  in 
great  agitation. 

"  Considerably  later  tlian  this," 
said  Camille. 

"  Well,  but  suppose  it  was,  —  you 
ilon't  see,  —  the  journal!  the  jour- 
nal ! " 

"  My  mother  has  it  locked  up.  I  '11 
run." 


"  No,  Laurc,  no  one  but  me.  Jose- 
phine, do  not  give  way  to  hoj^es  that 
may  he  delusive.  But  I  tell  you 
plainly,  there  are  hopes.  I  must  see 
that  journal  directly.  Stay  where 
you  are.  I  will  go  to  the  baroness." 
He  hurried  out. 

He  was  scarcely  gone,  when  a  cry 
of  horror  filled  the  room,  a  cry  as  of 
madness  falling  like  a  thunderbolt  on 
a  human  mind. 

It  was  Josephine,  who,  up  to  this, 
had  not  uttered  one  word.  She 
stood,  white  as  a  corpse,  in  the  mid- 
dle of  tlie  room,  and  wrung  her  hands. 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  What  shall 
I  do  ?  It  was  the  third  of  May  !  I 
see  it  before  me  in  letters  of  fire,  — 
the  third  of  May!  the  third  of  May! 
—  and  he  writes  the  15th." 

"  No  !  no  !  "  cried  Camille,  wild- 
ly. "  It  was  long,  long  after  the 
third." 

"  It  was  the  third  of  May  !  " 
repeated  Josephine,  in  a  hoarse  voice, 
that  none  would  have  known  for 
hers. 

Camille  ran  to  her  with  words  of 
comfort  and  hope ;  he  did  not  share 
her  fears.  He  remembered  about 
when  the  Moniteur  came,  though  not 
the  very  day.  He  threw  his  arm  lov- 
ingly round"  her,  as  if  to  protect  her 
against  these  shadowy  terrors.  Her 
dilating  eyes  seemed  fixed  on  some- 
thing distant  in  space  or  time,  —  at 
some  horrible  thing  coming  slowly 
towards  her.  She  did  not  see  Ca- 
mille approach  her,  but  the  moment 
she  felt  him  she  turned  upon  him 
swiftly. 

"  Do  you  love  me, — you?"  still 
in  the  hoarse  voice  that  had  so  little 
in  it  of  Josephine. 

"  O  Josephine  !  " 

"  Does  one  grain  of  respect  or  vir- 
tue mingle  in  your  love  for  me?  " 

"  What  words  are  these,  my  wife  ? '' 

"  Then  leave  Raynal 's  house  upon 
the  instant.  You  wonder  I  can  be  so 
cruel  ?  I  wonder,  too ;  and  that  I 
can  see  my  duty  so  clear  in  one  short 
moment !  But,  Camille,  I  have  lived 
twenty  vears  since  that  letter  camo. 


198 


wiiiri;  LiKS. 


oil !  niv  Imiiii  li:is  wliirlcd  tliri)iij,'h  a 
tliousaiul  a;,'<)iiii-s.  lint  1  tiave  coinu 
Imik  11  tlum>:iii(l  times  to  the  same 
tiling:,  —  yon  imd  1  must  see  each 
otlier's  face  no  more." 

t'amille  threw  himself  on  his  knees, 
and  implored  her  to  reeall  her  words. 
"  T;ike  cnre,"  .she  sereamed,  wildly, 
"  I  am  on  the  vcrf;e  of  madness  ;  is  it 
for  you  to  thrust  me  over  the  jireci- 
pice'?  Come  now,  if  you  are  a  man 
of  honor,  if  you  have  a  s])ark  of  ^'rati- 
tude  towards  the  poor  woman  who  has 
piven  you  all  except  her  fair  name,  — 
that  she  will  take  to  the  {;ravc  in 
spite  of  you  all,  —  jHomise  that  you 
will  leave  Kaynal's  house  this  minute, 
if  he  is  alive',  and  let  mc  die  in  hon- 
or, as  I  have  lived." 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  Camillc,  terror- 
stricken  ;  "  it  cannot  be  !  Heaven  is 
merciful  ;  and  Heaven  sees  how  hap- 
pv  we  are  !  Be  calm  ;  these  arc  idle 
fe'ars,  —  he  calm-,  I  say  !  Well,  then, 
my  poor  saint,  if  it  is  so,  I  will  obey 
yo'u.  I  will  stay,  I  will  <^o,  I  will 
die,  I  will  live."  Whatever  you  bid 
me  do,  I  will  do,  mv  poor  Jose- 
phine ! " 

"  Swear  this  to  me  by  the  thing 
you  hold  most  sacred  !  " 

"  I  swear  by  my  love  for  j-ou." 

Af^itated  voices  were  heard  at  tlic 
door,  and  the  baroness  burst  in,  fol- 
lowed by  the  doctor,  who  was  tryinj; 
in  vain  to  put  some  bounds  to  her 
emotion  and  her  hopes. 

"  O  my  children  !  — my  children  !  " 
cried  she,  trembling  violently. 
"  Here,  Laure,  my  hands  shake  so  ; 
take  this  kcv,  opc"n  the  cabinet,  there 
is  the  Monitriir.     What  is  the  date  1 " 

"  The  20th  of  Mav." 

"  There!  "  cried  Camille.  "  I  told 
you." 

The  baroness  uttered  a  feeble 
mo.an.  Her  liopcs  died  as  suddenly 
as  they  had  been  born,  and  she  sank 
drooping  into  a  chair,  with  a  bitter 
sigh. 

Camillc  stole  a  joyful  look  at  Josc- 

{ thine.     She  was  in  tlic  sanu;  attitude, 
coking   straight   Ix-fore  her  as  at  a 
coming  borror.     Presently  Laure  ut- 


tered  a  faint  cry  :  "  Tlic   battle  was 
btfuiy!  " 

"  To  be  sure,"  cried  the  doctor : 
"you  forget,  it  is  not  the  date  of  the 
paper,  but  of  the  battle  it  records. 
For  (jod's  sake,  when  was  the  battle  ?  " 
"TuK  TiiiKD  OF  May,"  sniJ 
Josephine,  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to 
come  from  the  tomb. 

Laure 's  hands  that  held  the  journal 
fell  like  a  dead  weight  upon  her  knees. 
She  \vhis|)ered  :  — 

"  It  was  the  third  of  May." 
"  Ah  !  "  cried  the  baroness,  stJirting 
up.  "  He  may  vet  be  alive  !  He 
must  be  alive  !  tieaven  is  merciful ! 
Heaven  would  not  take  my  son  from 
me.  A  jioor  old  woman  who  has  not 
long  to  live.  There  was  a  letter  ! 
Where  is  the  letter  1  " 

"  Yes,  the  letter  !  Where  is  it  1  " 
said  the  doctor.  "  I  had  it :  it  has 
dropped  from  my  old  fingers.  I 
thought  of  nothing  but  the  journal." 
A  short  examination  of  the  room 
showed  the  letter  lying  crumpled  up 
near  tiie  door.  Camillc  gave  it  to  the 
baroness. 

"  Kcad  !  —  read  !  no,  not  you,  old 
friend !  You  and  I  arc  old :  our 
hands  shake,  and  our  eyes  are 
troubled  :  this  young  gentleman  will 
read  it  to  us  :  liis  eyes  arc  not  dim  and 
troubled.  0,  something  tells  me  that 
when  /  hear  this  letter,  I  shall  find 
out  whether  my  son  lives!  \yhy  do 
vou  not  read  it  to  me,  Camillc  ?  " 
cried  she,  almost  fiercely. 

Camillc,  thus  pressed,  obeyed  me- 
chanically, and  began  to  read  Ray- 
nal's  letter  aloud,  scarce  knowing 
what  he  did,  but  urged  and  driven  by 
the  baroness. 

"  J/y  dear  mother :  —  /  hope  all  are 
well  at  Deaitrepaire,  as  I  am.  I  re- 
ceived a  ironnd  in  our  last  ski)-niish,  not 
a  very  severe  one  :  but  it  slopped  my 
writing  Jur  some  time." 

"  Go  on,  dear  Camille!  go  on." 
"  The  page  ends  there,  madame." 
The  pa])(r  was  ihin,  and  Camille, 
whose  hand  trembled,  had  some  diffi- 
cultv  in  detaching  the  leaves  from  one 


WHITE  LIES. 


199 


another.  He  succeeded,  however,  at 
last,  and  went  on  reading  and  writh- 
ing. 

"  By  the  waif,  you  must  address  your 
next  letter  to  me  as  Colonel  Raynal.  I 
teas  promoted  just  before  this  last  affair, 
but  had  not  time  to  tell  you." 

"  There,  there  !  "  cried  the  baroness. 
"  He  was  Colonel  Raynal,  _  and  Colo- 
nel Raynal  was  not  killed." 

"  Pray  don't  interrupt." 

"  No,  my  friend  :  go  on,  Camille, 
—  why  do  you  hesitate  ?  what  is  the 
matter?  do  for  pity's  sake  go  on, 
sir." 

Camille  cast  a  look  of  agony 
around,  and  put  his  hand  to  his  brow 
on  which  large  drops  of  cold  perspi- 
ration, like  a  death  dew,  were  gather- 
ing ;  but,  driven  to  the  stake  on  all 
sides,  he  gasped  on,  rather  than  read  : 
for  his  eye  had  gone  down  the  page. 

"  A  namesake  of  mine,  —  Comman- 
dant Raynal —  " 

"  Ah ! " 

"  Has  not  been  —  so  fortunate  : 
he  —  " 

"  Go  on  !  go  on  !  " 

The  wretched  man  could  now 
scarcely  utter  Raynal's  words :  they 
came  from  him  in  a  choking  groan. 

"  He  was  hilled,  —  poor  fellow  !  — 
tvhile  heading  a  gallant  charge  upon  the 
enemy's  flank." 

The  letter  was  ground  convul- 
sively ;  then  it  fell,  all  crumpled,  on 
the  floor. 

"  Bless  you,  Camille  !  "  cried  the 
baroness,  —  "  bless  you  !  bless  you  !  I 
have  a  son  still !  Give  me  the  precious 
letter  !  " 

She  stooped  eagerly,  took  it  up,  and 
kissed  it  again  and  again. 

"  Your  husband  is  alive  !  my  son  is 
alive  !  our  benefactor  is  alive  !  " 

Then  she  fell  on  her  knees,  and 
thanked  Heaven  aloud  before  them 
all.  Then  she  rose  and  went  hastily 
out,  and  her  voice  was  heard  crying 
very  loud ;  — 


"  Jacintha!  Jacintha!  " 

The  doctor  followed,  fearful  for  the 
effects  of  this  violent  joy  on  so  aged  a 
person.  The  three  remained  behind, 
panting  and  pale  like  those  to  whom 
dead  Lazarus  burst  the  tomb,  and 
came  forth  in  a  moment,  —  at  a  word. 
Then  Camille  half  kneeled,  half  fell  at 
Josephine's  feet,  and,  in  a  voice  choked 
with  sobs,  bade  her  dispose  of  him. 

She  turned  her  head  away. 

"  Do  not  speak  to  me,  do  not  look 
at  me  :  if  we  look  at  one  another,  we 
are  lost.  Go  !  die  at  your  post,  and 
I  at  mine  !  " 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  kissed  her 
dress,  then  he  rose  calm  as  despair 
and  white  as  death,  and,  his  knees 
knocking  under  him,  he  tottered  away 
like  a  corpse  set  moving. 

The  baroness  came  back,  trium- 
phant and  gay. 

"  I  have  sent  her  to  bid  them  ring 
the  bells  in  the  village  ;  the  jioor  shall 
be  feasted,  —  all  shall  share  our  joy, 
—  my  son  was  dead,  and  lives.  O  joy ! 
joy  !  joy ! " 

"  Mother  !  "  shrieked  Josephine. 

"  Madwoman  that  I  am,  I  am  too 
boisterous  !  help  me,  Laurc !  she  is 
going  to  faint,  —  her  lips  are  white  ! " 

They  brought  a  chair.  They  forced 
Josephine  into  it.  She  was  not  the 
least  fiiint :  yet  her  body  obeyed  their 
hands  just  like  a  dead  body.  The 
baroness  burst  into  tears,  tears 
streamed  from  Laure's  eyes.  Jose- 
phine's were  dry  and  stony,  and  fixed 
on  coming  horror.  The  baroness  re- 
proached herself. 

"  Thoughtless  old  woman.  It  was 
too  sudden  :  it  is  too  much  for  my 
dear  child.  I,  too,  am  faint  now  "  ; 
and  she  kneeled,  and  laid  her  aged 
head  on  her  daughter's  bosom,  saying 
feebly  through  her  tears,  "  too  much 
joy,  —  too  much  joy." 

Josephine  took  no  notice  of  her. 
She  sat  like  one  turned  to  stone,  look- 
ing far  away  over  her  mother's  head 
with  rigid  eyes  fixed  on  the  air  and 
on  coming  horrors. 

Laure  felt  her  arm  seized.     It  was 


200 


WIUTi:    I.IKS. 


St.  Anl(in.     He,  tuo,  was  pale  now, 
thou;;h  not  Ijcforo.    He  spoke  in  a  ter- 
rible wliispcr   to  Lnure,  his  eye  fixe<l 
on  the  woman  of  stone  that  sat  there. 
"  Is  THIS  jov  '.  " 


CHAPTKK    XXXIII. 

Josephine  Raynal  is  no  stranger 
to  you  :  most  of  you  know  more 
about  lier  than  about  any  other  woman 
of  your  actjuaiiitance.  Brin<r  your 
knowled;;e  to  my  aid.  Iniaj^inc,  as 
the  weary  hours,  and  days,  and  weeks 
roll  over  her  head,  what  this  loving 
woman  feels  for  her  lover  whom  she 
has  dismissed  :  what  this  grateful 
woman  feels  for  tlie  benefactor  she 
has  unwittingly  wronged, — but  will 
never  wrong  with  her  eyes  open. 
What  this  woman,  pure  as  snow,  and 
proud  a-s  fire,  feels  at  tlio  appearance 
of  frailty  into  which  circumstances 
have  betrayed  her. 

Put  down  the  book  n  moment : 
shut  your  eyes :  and  imajrine  this 
strange  form  of  human  surt'eiing. 

Doctor  St.  Aulfin  received  one  day 
a  note  from  a  publisliing  bookseller, 
to  inquire  whether  he  still  thought  of 
giving  the  world  his  valualile  work  on 
insects.     The  doctor  was  amazed. 

"  My  valuable  work  !  Why,  Laure, 
they  all  refused  it,  and  this  one  in 
particular  recoiled  from  mc  as  if  my 
insects  could  sting  on  paper." 

The  publisher  went  on  to  say  :  — 

"  Studies  of  litis  class  are  (jaining 
ground,  and  I  think  we  might  venture 
before  the  public. " 

This  led  to  a  correspondence,  in 
which  the  convert  to  insects  explained 
that  the  work  must  be  published  at 
the  author's  expense,  the  publisher 
contenting  himself  with  the  profits. 

The  author,  thirsting  for  the  public, 
cfinsentod. 

Then  the  piibli.slier  wrote  again  to 
sav  that  the  work  nnist  be  spiced.  A 
litile  politics  niu-t  be  tiling  in  :  noth- 
ing goes  down  else 


The  author  answered  in  some  heat 
that  he  would  not  dilute  things  ever- 
lasting with  the  tleeting  topics  of  the 
day,  nor  tlelile  science  with  j)olitics. 
Un  this  his  Mentor  smoothed  him 
down,  despising  him  secretly  for  not 
seeing  that  a  book  is  a  matter  of  trade 
and  nothing  el.se.  IJrief,  St.  Aubin 
went  to  Paris  to  hatch  liis  Phcx-nix. 

He  had  not  been  there  a  week, 
when  a  small  deputation  called  on 
him,  and  informed  him  he  had  been 
elected  honorary  member  ola  certain 
scientitic  society. 

"  Hallo  !  "  thought  he,  and  liowed 
as  gentlemen  used  and  as  dancing 
masters  use.  Fair  speeches  on  both 
sides!     Kxit  deputation. 

Next,  invitations  poured  in.  He 
accepted  them.  He  shone  at  parties. 
Compliments  were  gracefully  insin- 
nate(i  to  his  face.  Science  seemed 
really  to  Itc  coming  into  fashion. 

But  wlien  a  lovely  young  woman 
or  two  began  with  the  pliancy  of  their 
sex  to  find  they  had  for  many  years 
secretly  taken  a  warm  interest  in  but- 
terflies,—  out  of  their  own  species, — 
the  naturalist  smelt  a  rat. 

"  I  see,"  said  he,  "  entomology,  a 
form  of  idiocy  in  a  poor  man,  is  a 
graceful  deviation  of  the  intellect  in  a 
rich  one." 

Philosopher  without  bile,  he  saw 
through  this,  and  let  it  amuse,  not 
shock  him.  His  species  had  another 
trait  in  reserve  for  him. 

He  took  a  world  of  trouble  to  find 
out  the  circumstances  of  his  nephew's 
nej)hews  and  nieces  :  then  he  made 
arrangements  for  distributing  a  large 
part  of  his  legacy  among  them.  His 
intentions  and  the  proportions  of  his 
generosity  transpired. 

Silent  till  now,  they  all  fell  to  and 
abused  him  :  each  looking  only  at  the 
amount  of  his  individual  share,  not  at 
the  sum  total  the  doctor  was  giving 
away  to  an  ungrateful  lot. 

The  donor  wa-f  greatly  amused,  and 
noted  down  the  incident  and  some  of 
the  remarks  in  his  commonplace-book, 
under  this  head,  "  Man." 

Paris  is  full  of  seductions,  gome  of 


WHITE   LIES. 


201 


them  innocent.     It  netted  the  doctor, 
and  held  him  fast. 

He  was  distuibeii  from  time  to  time 
by  ill  accounts  of  Josephine's  health; 
and,  if  he  had  thought  with  the  baron- 
ess that  her  illness  was  of  the  body,  he 
would  have  come  to  lier  side  at  once  : 
as  it  was,  he  hoped  more  from  time 
than  from  drugs  in  her  case ;  and,  as 
he  had  a  vague  suspicion  he  was  not 
desirous  the  baroness  should  share,  he 
was  rather  disposed  to  keep  out  of  her 
way. 

He  wrote,  therefore,  briefly  and  re- 
servedly, assuring  Madame  de  Beaure- 
paire  that  Madame  Eaynal  had  no  or- 
ganic disease,  and  would  outgrow 
these  fluctuations  of  health  :  he  pre- 
scribed some  mild  tonics. 

The  despair  of  Josephine's  mind 
was  so  terrible  that  Laure  would  glad- 
ly have  compounded  fur  a  bodily  ill- 
ness :  she  feared  for  her  sister's  rea- 
son ;  and,  though  it  added  another 
anxiety,  she  was  scarcely  sorry  when 
she  discovered  that  symptoms  which 
looked  like  bile  attacked  her  frequent- 
ly- 

"I  shall  tell  our  mother  of  this." 

"  I  would  not  tell  her  a  word  about 
it,"  observed  Jacintha,  quietly.  She 
happened  to  be  present. 

"  Why  not  ?  she  has  already  noticed 
how  ill  my  sister  is." 

"Mademoiselle  Laure,  take  my  ad- 
vice, and  don't  go  and  worry  her  :  it 
can  do  no  good." 

Jacintha  spoke  so  firmly,  and 
seemed  so  confident,  that  Laure  drew 
her  aside. 

"Jacintha,  I  am  so  anxious  about 
her :  and  perhaps  our  mother  may 
know  some  remedy  ;  she  is  more  ex- 
perienced than  we  are." 

"  There  is  no  remedy  wanted.  You 
are  making  a  fuss  about  nothing,  ma- 
demoiselle." 

"  How  do  you  know  that,  Jacintha  ? 
Did  you  ever  see  any  one  suffer  as  she 
does"? " 

"Plenty!" 

"  O  Jacintha  '  be  frank  with  me  : 
did  they  die  ?  " 

"  No." 

9* 


"None  of  them?" 

"  Not  one." 

"  Then  tlicre  is  no  danger,  you 
think?" 

"  Not  an  atom." 

"  Bless  you  for  saying  so,  good  Ja- 
cintha !  And  how  confidently  you 
speak  :  your  tone  and  manner  reassure 
me.  Yet,  after  all,  my  poor  Jacintha, 
you  are  not  a  doctor  !  " 

"  No,  mademoiselle,  but  women  in 
my  way  of  life  see  a  many  tilings,  and 
hear  a  many  things,  that  don't  come  to 
a  voung  lady's  knowledge  like  you." 
'"Oh,  do  they?" 

The  above  symptom  disappeared  : 
but  a  more  serious  cause  of  fear  re- 
mained in  Josephine's  utter  listless- 
ness  and  fi  ightful  apathy :  she  seemed 
a  creature  descending  inch  by  inch 
into  the  tomb  She  shunned  ail  com- 
pany :  even  Laure's  at  times.  She 
seldom  spoke.  One  day  she  said,  "  not 
dead  yet ! "  half  to  herself,  and  in 
such  a  tone,  that  Laure's  heart  died 
within  her. 

The  house  fell  into  silence  and 
gloom. 

Jacintha,  naturally  so  bustling  and 
cheerful,  became  silent,  thoughtful, 
and  moody.  She  had  never  been  so 
affected  by  their  former  troubles. 
Laure  caught  her  eye  at  times,  dwell- 
ing with  a  singular  expression  of  pity 
and  interest  on  Josephine.  "  Good 
creature  !  "  thought  Laure,  she  sees 
my  sister  is  unhappy,  and  tliat  makes 
her  more  attentive  and  devoted  to  her 
than  ever. 

One  day  these  three  were  together 
in  Josephine's  room.  Josephine  was 
mechanically  combing  her  long  hair, 
when,  all  of  a  sudden,  she  stretched 
out  her  hand  and  cried  hastily  :  — 

"  Laure  !  " 

Laure  ran  to  her,  and  coming  be- 
hind her  saw  in  the  glass  that  her  lips 
were  colorless.  She  screamed  to  Ja- 
cintha, and  between  them  they  sup- 
ported Josephine  to  the  bed.  She  had 
hardly  touched  it  when  she  fainted 
dead  away. 

"  Mamma !  mamma  !  "  cried  Laure^ 
in  her  terror. 


202 


WHlTi:   LIKS. 


"Hush!"  cried  Jacinthfi,  "hold 
your  ton;;uo  ;  it  is  only  a  faint.  Help 
mc  loosen  her,  don't  make  uny  nois-c 
whatever." 

Tlifv  looseni'd  her  stays  and  ap- 
plied the  usual  remedies,  but  it  was 
some  time  Ijel'ore  she  came  to.  At 
last  the  color  came  back  to  her  lips, 
then  to  her  cheek,  and  the  li;:ht  to 
her  eye.  She  smiled  feebly  on  Jacin- 
tha  anil  Laure. 

"  I  have  been  insensible,  have  I 
not?" 

"  Yes,  love,  and  fri|.'htcnod  us  —  a 
little  —  not  much  — O  dear !  O  dear !  " 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  sweet  one,  —  I 
am  better." 

"  Now  may  I  go  and  tell  mam- 
ma ? "  asked  Laure. 

"  No  !  mademoiselle,"  was  Jacin- 
tha's  reply.  "  Wliut  makes  you  so 
bent  on  tormenting  my  mistress?" 

"But,  Jacintha,  I  am  frightened: 
it  is  not  as  if  my  sister  was  subject  to 
fainting  fits.  I  never  saw  her  faint 
but  once  before." 

"And  I  will  never  do  it  again, 
since  it  frightens  you."  Then  Jose- 
phine said  to  her  sister,  in  a  low  voice 
and  in  the  Italian  language  :  "  I 
hoi)ed  it  was  Death,  my  sister ;  but  he 
comes  not  to  the  wretched." 

"  If  you  hoped  that ! "  replied 
Laure,  in  the  same  language,  "  you  do 
not  love  your  poor  sister  who  so  loves 
you." 

While  the  Itali.in  was  going  on, 
Jacintha's  dark  eyes  glanced  suspi- 
ciously on  each  speiiker  in  turn. 
But  her  suspicions  were  all  wide  of 
the  marL 

"  Now  may  I  go  and  tell  mamma  ?  " 

"  No,  mademoiselle!  Madame  11. ly- 
nal,  do  take  my  side,  and  forbid 
her." 

"  Why,  what  is  it  to  you  ?  "  said 
Laure,  sharply. 

"  If  it  was  not  something  to  me, 
should  I  thwart  my  dear  young 
lady  ?  " 

"  No.  And  you  shall  have  your 
own  way,  if  you  will  Imt  condescend 
to  give  mc  a  reason." 

This  to  some  of  us   might  appear 


reasonable,  but  not  to  Jacintha :  it 
even  hurt  her  feeliirgs. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  idic  said,  "  when 
you  were  little  and  used  to  ask  me  for 
anything,  did  I  ever  say  to  you,  '  Give 
me  a  reason  lirst '  ?  " 

"  There  !  she  is  right.  We  should 
not  make  terms  with  tried  friends. 
Come,  we  will  pay  her  devotion  thi.s 
compliment.  It  is  such  a  small 
favor." 

"  And  I  fchall  take  it  as  a  great 
one." 

"  Enough :  we  will  not  tell  our 
mf)ther." 

Laure  acquiesced,  but  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  did  so  hope  that  all  our  conceal- 
ments from  her  were  ended  :  but  now 
we  have  begun  concealing,  .something 
keeps  always  happening  to  make  us 
go  on. 

"  Well,  one  comfort.  Doctor  St. 
Aubin  will  be  here  ne.\t  monih,  and 
then  I  shall  tell  him ;  there  is  no  ob- 
jection to  that,  I  suppose." 

"  What  day  does  the  doctor  come  ?  " 
was  all  Jacintha's  answer. 

"  We  don't  know  yet :  but  he  will 
write  first." 

An  improvement  took  place  in  Jose- 
phine's health  about  this  time.  A 
slight  tint  came  to  her  check,  and  faint 
and  fitful  glows  to  her  heart.  The 
powers  of  life  in  her  received  f^  sup- 
jx)rt :  she  was  conscious  of  it.  She 
said  one  day  to  Lanro  :  — 

"  My  sister,  I  no  longer  wish  to 
die  :  is  it  not  strange  ?  Something 
seems  to  bid  me  live.  Is  Heaven 
strengthening  me  to  suffer  more  ?  " 

"  No,  my  sister,"  said  Laure ; 
"  time  is  "blunting  your  anguish ! 
And  it  is  for  my  .=ake  you  wish  to 
live,  bless  you  !  — for  mine,  who  would 
follow  you  to  the  tomb,  my  best  be- 
loved of  all  the  world  !  " 

"  Yes,  Laure,  you  love  your  poor 
sister  too  well.  I  fear  you  love  me 
better  than  you  do  Edouard." 

"  He  has  no  troubles !  Yes,  my 
poor  patient  saint,  my  life  seems 
to  me  too  small  a  thing  to  give 
vou." 


WHITE  LIES. 


203 


"It  13  very  consoling  to  be  loved 
so,"  sobbed  Josephine.  "  Oh  that 
none  other  but  you  had  ever  loved  me  ! 
I  have  caused  the  despair  of  one  who 
loved  mc  well,  too.  0  my  sister ! 
—  my  sister! " 

This  was  the  only  time  she  had 
ever  alluded  for  months  past  to  Ca- 
mille.  She  guarded  the  avenues  of 
her  heart,  poor  soul !  She  fought  for 
her  purity  as  sternly,  as  keenly,  as 
heroes  ever  fought  for  glory,  or  mar- 
tyrs for  truth. 

Josephine's  appearance  improved 
still  more.  Her  hollow  cheeks  recov- 
ered their  plump  smoothness,  and  her 
beauty  its  bloom,  and  her  person  grew 
more  noble  and  statue-like  than  ever, 
and  within  she  felt  a  sense  of  indomit- 
able vitalit}-.  Her  appetite  had  for 
some  months  been  excessively  feeble 
and  uncertain,  and  her  food  tasteless  ; 
but  of  late  by  what  she  conceived  to 
be  a  reaction  such  as  is  common  after 
youth  has  shaken  off  a  long  sickness, 
her  appetite  had  been  not  only  healthy 
but  eager. 

The  baroness  observed  this,  and  it 
relieved  her  of  a  large  portion  of  her 
anxiety.  One  day  at  dinner  her  ma- 
ternal heart  was  so  pleased  with  Jose- 
phine's performance,  that  she  took  it 
as  a  personal  favor. 

"Well  done,  my  daughter!  that 
gives  your  mother  pleasure  to  see  you 
eat  again.  Soup  and  bouillon :  and 
now  twice  you  have  been  to  Laure  for 
some  of  that  pate,  which  does  you  so 
much  credit,  Jacintha." 

Josephine  colored  high  at  this  com- 
pliment. 

"  It  is  true,"  said  she,  "  I  eat  like 
a  pig  "  ;  and,  witli  a  furtive  glance  at 
the  said  pate,  she  laid  down  her  knife 
and  fork,  and  ate  no  more  of  any- 
thing. 

"  The  doctor  will  be  angry  with 
me,"  said  the  baroness.  "  I  have  tor- 
mented him  away  from  Paris,  and 
when  he  comes  he  will  find  her  as  well 
as  ever." 

"  iMadame  the  baroness,"  said  Ja- 
cintha, hastily,  "  when  does  the  doctor 


come,  if  I  may  make  so  bold,  that  I 
may  get  his  room  ready  ?  " 

"Well  thought  of,  Jacintha.  He 
comes  the  day  after  to-morrow  iu  the 
afternoon." 

At  night  when  the  young  ladies 
went  up  to  bed,  what  did  they  find 
but  a  little  cloth  laid  on  a  little  table 
in  Josephine's  room,  and  the  remains 
of  the  pate'  she  had  liked.  Laure 
burst  out  laughing  :  — 

"  Look  at  that  dear  duck  of  a 
goose,  Jacintha !  Our  mother's  flat- 
tery sank  deep  ;  she  thinks  we  can  eat 
her  pates  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and 
night.     Shall  I  send  it  away  1 " 

"  No  !  "  said  Josephine  ;  "  that 
would  hurt  her  culinary  pride,  and 
perhaps  her  afiection  :  only  cover  it 
up,  dear  :  for  just  now  I  am  not  in  the 
humor :  it  rather  turns  my  stomach." 

It  was  covered  up.  The  sisters  re- 
tired to  rest.  In  the  middle  of  the 
night,  pitch  dark,  Josephine  rose, 
groped  her  way  to  the  pate,  and  ate  it 
to  the  last  mouthful :  polished  the 
plate ;  then  to  bed  again,  tranquil- 
lized. 

The  large  tapestried  chamber,  once 
occupied  by  Camille  Dujardin,  was 
now  turned  into  a  sitting-room,  and  it 
was  a  favorite  room  on  account  of  the 
beautiful  view  from  the  windows.  It 
had  also  a  large  side  window  looking 
westward,  as  well  as  four  windows 
looking  south :  and  this  suited  the 
baroness  ;  her  sight  was  dim. 

Josephine  sat  there  alone  with  some 
work  on  a  certain  day  in  her  hand  : 
but  the  needle  often  stopped,  and  the 
fair  head  drooped. 

She  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

To  her  surprise  it  was  echoed  by  a 
sigh  that,  like  her  own,  seemed  to  come 
from  a  heart  full  of  sighs. 

She  turned  hastily  round,  —  it  was 
Jacintha. 

Josephine,  as  we  know,  had  a  wo- 
man's eye  for  reading  faces,  and  she 
was  instantly  struck  by  two  things,  by 
a  certain  gravity  in  Jacintha's  gaze, 
and  a  flutter  which  the  vounjr  v/om^'.n 


20J 


WlUTi:  l-IKS. 


was  supprossinnf  with  tolerable  bnt 
not  compli'to  succes'j. 

Dis;;iiisiin;i  tlie  uiiciisincss  this  dis- 
covery pive  iier,  sliu  hjokcil  .Jiuiiitha 
full  ill  the  face,  and  said  mildly,  but 
a  little  coldiv  :  — 

"  Well,  Jaeintha  ?  " 

Jacintha  lowereil  her  eyes,  and  mut- 
tered slowly  :  — 

"  The  doctor  —  comes  —  to  -  day." 
Then  raised  her  eyes  all  in  a  moment 
to  take  Jose])hitie  ott"  her  fjuard,  —  but 
the  calm  (ace  was  imiK-netrahie.  So 
tlien  Jacintha  added,  "  to  our  misfor- 
tune," throwing  in  still  more  meaning. 

"  To  our  misfortune  1  What,  dear 
old  friend,  —  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  so  easy  to  say  what  I 
mean  !  " 

"  And  it  is  impossible  for  mc  to 
divine  it,  my  poor  Jacintha  !  " 

"  Madame,"  said  tlie  other,  firmly, 
"do  not  jest,  I  entreat  you  !  the  case 
is  too  serious.  That  old  man  makes 
me  shake.  You  are  never  safe  with 
him.  So  long  as  his  head  is  in  the 
clouds,  you  might  take  his  shoes  off, 
and  on  he  'd  walk  and  never  know  it ; 
but  every  now  and  then  he  comes  out 
of  the  clouds  all  in  one  moment,  with- 
out a  word  of  warning,  and  when  he 
does  his  eye  is  on  everything,  like  a 
bird's.  Then  lie  is  so  old.  lie  has 
seen  a  heap.  Take  my  word  for  it, 
the  old  are  more  knowing  than  tiic 
young,  let  tliem  be  as  sharp  as  you 
like  :  the  old  have  seen  everything. 
We  have  only  heard  talk  of  the  most 
part,  with  here  and  there  a  glimpse. 
To  know  life  to  the  bottom,  you  must 
live  it  out,  from  the  soup  to  the  des- 
sert ;  and  that  is  what  the  doctor  has 
done,  and  now  he  is  coming  here." 

"  Well,  and  what  follows?" 

"  Mademoiselle  Laure  will  go  tell- 
ing him  everything  :  and,  if  she  tells 
him  half  wliat  there  is  to  tell,  your 
gecret  will  be  no  secret." 

"  ily  secret !  "  gasped  Josephine, 
turning  pale. 

"  Don't  Itwk  so,  mad.-ime  !  —  don't 
be  friglucned  at  poor  Jacintha.  Soon- 
er or  later,  you  innst  trust  somebody 
besides  Mademoiselle  Laure." 


Josephine  looked  at  her  with  in- 
()uirin<j,  frightened  eye-s. 

"Mademoiselle!  —  I  beg  pardon, 
nia<lainc',  —  I  carried  you  in  my  arms 
when  1  WHS  a  child.  When  I  wns  a 
girl  you  toddled  at  my  side,  and  held 
my  gown,  and  lisped  my  name  ;  and 
used  to  put  your  little  arms  round  my 
neck,  and  kiss  me,  you  would.  Ah, 
mademoiselle,  I  wish  those  days  could 
come  back !  " 

"  Ah  !  would  they  could  !  — would 
they  could  !  " 

"  And  if  ever  I  had  the  least  pain, 
or  sickness,  your  dear  little  face  would 
turn  as  sorrowful,  and  all  the  pretty 
color  leave  it  for  Jacintha;  and  now 
you  arc  in  trouble,  in  sore  trouble, — 
but  you  turn  away  from  me,  you  dare 
not  trust  me,  that  would  be  cut  in 
pieces  ere  I  would  betray  you  !  Ma- 
demoiselle, you  are  wrong.  The  poor 
can  feel :  they  have  all  seen  trouble, 
and  a  servant  is  the  best  of  friends 
where  she  has  the  heart  to  love  her 
mistress  !  and  do  not  I  love  you  ? 
Ah,  mademoiselle !  do  not  turn  from 
her  who  has  carried  you  in  her  arms, 
and  laid  you  to  sleep  upon  her  bosom, 
many  's  and  many  's  the  time." 

Josephine  panted  audibly.  She 
held  out  her  hand  eloquently  toward."! 
Jacintha,  but  she  turned  her  head 
away,  and  trembled. 

Jaeintha  cast  a  hasty  glance  round 
the  room.  Then  she  trembled  too  at 
what  she  was  going  to  say,  and  the 
cflfect  it  might  have  on  the  young  lady. 
As  for  Josephine,  terrible  as  the  con- 
versation had  become,  she  made  no 
attempt  to  evade  it,  for  she  must  learn 
how  far  Jacintha  had  penetrated  her 
secret. 

Jacintha,  in  a  hurried,  quivering 
voice,  hissed  into  Josephine's  ear  these 
words  :  — 

"  When  the  news  of  Colonel  Ray- 
nal's  death  came,  you  wept,  but  the 
color  came  back  to  your  cheek.  When 
the  news  of  his  life  came,  you  turned 
to  stone.  Ah  !  my  poor  young  lady, 
there  has  been  more  between  you  and 
that  man  than  should  be.  Kvcr  since 
one  day  you  all  went  to  Fnjus  U>- 


WHITE   LIES. 


205 


gether  you  were  a  chanfred  -woman. 
I  have  seen  you  look  at  him,  as  —  as 
a  wife  looks  at  her  man.  I  have  seen 
him  —  " 

"  Hush !  Jacintha.  Do  not  tell  me 
what  you  have  seen,  — ^  oh  !  do  not 
remind  me  of  joys  I  pray  God  to  help 
me  forget.  He  was  my  husband, 
then  !  —  O  cruel  Jacintha,  to  remind 
me  of  what  I  have  been  :  of  what  I 
am,  —  ah  me  !  ah  me  !  ah  me  !  " 

"  Your  husband  ! !  "  muttered  Ja- 
cintha, in  utter  amazement. 

Then  Josephine  drooped  her  head 
on  this  faithful  creature's  shoulder,  and 
told  her  with  .uany  sobs  the  story  I 
have  told  you  ;  she  told  it  very  briefly, 
for  it  was  to  a  woman,  who,  though 
little  educated,  was  full  of  feeling  and 
shrewdness,  and  needed  but  the  bare 
facts  :  she  could  add  the  rest  from  her 
own  heart  and  experience  :  could  tell 
the  storm  of  feelings  through  which 
these  two  unhappy  lovers  must  have 
passed.  Her  frequent  sighs  of  pity 
and  sympathy  drew  Josephine  on  to 
pour  out  all  her  griefs.  When  the 
tale  was  ended,  she  gave  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

"  It  might  have  been  worse,"  said 
Jacintha :  "  I  thought  it  was  worse, 
—  the  more  fool  I  —  I  deserve  to  have 
my  head  cut  off!  " 

It  was  Josephine's  turn  to  be 
amazed. 

"  It  could  have  been  worse  !  "  said 
she.  "  How  ?  tell  me,"  added  she, 
bitterly.  "  It  would  be  a  consolation 
to  me,  could  I  see  that." 

Jacintha  colored  and  evaded  this 
question,  and  begged  her  to  go  on,  — 
to  keep  nothing  back  from  her. 
Josephine  assured  her  she  had  revealed 
all.  Jacintha  looked  at  her  a  moment 
in  silence. 

'•  It  is  tlien  as  I  half  suspected." 

"  What  i  " 

"  You  do  not  know  all  that  is  be- 
fore you.  You  do  not  see  why  I  am 
afraid  of  that  old  man  ?  " 

"  No  :  not  of  him  in  particular." 

"  Nor  why  I  want  to  keep  Madem- 
oiselle Laure  from  talking  too  much 
to  him  7  " 


"  No !  Jacintha,  be  not  uneasy. 
Laure  is  to  be  trusted.  She  is  wise, 
—  wiser  than  I  am." 

"  You  are  neither  of  you  wise. 
You  know  nothing.  Ah  !  my  poor 
young  mistress,  you  are  but  a  child 
still.  You  have  a  deep  water  to  wade 
through,"  said  Jacintha,  so  solemnly 
that  Josephine  trembled.  "  A  deep 
water,  pnd  do  not  see  it  even.  You 
have  told  me  what  is  past ;  now  I 
must  tell  you  what  is  coming  ;  Heav- 
en help  me  !  " 

Josephine  trembled. 

"  Give  me  your  dear  hand  to  hold, 
mademoiselle,  if  vou  believe  I  love 
you  !  " 

"  There,  dear  Jacintha." 

She  trembled. 

"  Have  you  no  misgiving  1  " 

"  Alas  !  I  am  full  of  them  :  at  your 
words,  at  your  manner,  they  fly  around 
me  in  crowds." 

"  Have  you  no  one  ?  " 

"No!" 

"  Turn  your  head  from  me  a  bit, 
my  sweet  young  lady  :  I  am  an  hon- 
est woman,  though  I  am  not  so  inno- 
cent as  you,  and  I  am  forced  against 
my  will  to  speak  my  mind  plainer 
than  I  am  used  to." 

Then  followed  a  conversation,  to 
detail  which  might  anticipate  our 
story ;  suffice  it  to  say  that  it  gave 
Josephine  another  confidante. 

Laure,  coming  into  the  room  rather 
suddenly,  found  her  sister  weeping  on 
Jacintha's  bosom,  and  Jacintlia  crying 
and  sobbing  over  her. 

Doctor  St.  Aubin,  on  his  arrival, 

was  agreeably  surprised  at  Madame 
Raynal's  appearance. 

"She  looks  much  as  usual,"  said 
he.  "  She  is  even  grown  a  little. 
How  is  your  appetite,  my  child  ?  " 

"  Very  good,  doctor." 

"  O,  as  to  her  appetite,"  cried  the 
baroness,  "  it  is  immense." 

"  Indeed  !  " 

"  It  was,"  explained  Josephine, 
"just  when  I  began  to  get  better  ;  l)Ut 
now  it  is  much  as  usual."  This  an- 
swer had   been  arranged   beforehand 


20G 


WIHTl-:   LIES. 


by  JacintJm.  Slio  added  :  "  The 
fact  is,  wo  wanted  to  see  you,  doctor, 
and  my  ridiculous  ailments  were  a 
jTOod  excuse  for  tearing  you  from 
Taris." 

"  And  now  wo  have  succeeded," 
said  Laure,  "  let  us  throw  off  the 
mask  and  talk  of  other  thinf^s,  — 
above  all,  of  Paris  and  your  c'cliU." 

"  For  all  that,"  persisted  the  baron- 
ess, "  slic  was  ill  when  I  lirst  wrote, 
and  very  ill,  too." 

"  Madame  Uaynal,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, solemnly,  "your  conduct  has 
been  irre;;ular,  to  say  the  least :  once 
ill,  and  y(jur  illness  announced  to 
your  nieilital  advisor,  you  had  no 
rij^ht  to  get  well,  but  by  his  |)rescri|)- 
tioiis.  As,  then,  you  have  shown 
yourself  unlit  to  conduct  a  malady,  it 
becomes  my  painful  duty  to  forbid  you 
henceforth  ever  to  be  ill  at  all,  with- 
out my  permission  lirst  obtained  in 
writin;^." 

This  badina;^c  was  j^rcatly  relished 
by  Laure :  but  not  at  all  by  the  bar- 
oness. 

The  doctor  stayed  a  month  at  Bcau- 
rcpaire,  then  off  to  I'aris  again  ;  and 
being  nosv  a  rich  man,  and  not  too  old 
to  enjoy  innocent  jdeasurcs,  he  got  in- 
to a  habit  of  running  backwards  and 
forwards  between  the  two  places, 
spending  a  month  or  so  at  each,  alter- 
nately. So  the  days  rolled  on.  Jose- 
phine fell  into  a  state  that  almost  de- 
ties  description.  Her  heart  was  full 
of  deadly  wounds  ;  yet  this  seemed, 
by  some  mysterious,  half- healing 
balm,  to  throb  and  ache,  but  bleed  no 
more. 

Beams  of  strange,  unreasonable 
complacency  would  shoot  across  her  : 
the  next  moment  reflection  would 
come ;  she  would  droop  her  head, 
and  sigh  piteously.  Then  all  would 
merge  in  a  wild  terror  of  detection. 

She  seemed  on  the  borders  of  a 
river  of  bliss, — bliss,  new,  divine,  and 
inexhaustible  ;  and  on  the  other 
bank  mocking,  malignant  fiends 
dared  her  to  enter  that  heavenly 
stream. 

Nature  was  strong  in  this   young 


woman  :  and  at  tiiis  part  of  her  event- 
ful career  Nature  threw  herself  with 
giant  force  into  the  scale  of  life.  The 
past  to  her  was  full  of  regrets  ;  tho 
future  full  of  terrors,  and  empty  of 
hope.  Yet  she  did  not,  could  not, 
succumb.  Instead  of  the  listlessness 
and  languor  of  a  lew  months  back, 
she  had  now  more  energy  than  ever  ; 
at  times  it  mounted  to  irritation.  An 
activity  possessed  her  :  it  broke  out  in 
many  feminine  ways.  Among  tho 
rest  she  was  seized  with  what  we  men 
should  call  a  cacocthcs  of  the  needle  ; 
"  a  raging  desire  "  lor  work.  Her  fin- 
!  gcrs  itched  for  work.  She  was  at  it 
all  day.  As  devotees  retire  apart  to 
pray,  so  she  to  stitch. 

On  a  wet  day  she  would  slip  into 
the  kitchen,  and  ply  the  needle  beside 
Jacintha :  on  a  dry  day  she  would 
hide  in  the  old  oak-tree,  and  sit  like  a 
mouse,  and  ]»ly  the  tools  of  her  craft, 
and  make  things  of  no  mortid  use  to 
man  or  woman  ;  and  she  tried  little 
fringes  of  muslin  upon  her  white 
hand,  and  held  it  up  in  front  of  her, 
and  smiled,  and  then  moaned.  It 
was  winter,  and  Laure  used  some- 
times to  bring  her  out  a  thick  shawl, 
as  she  sat  in  the  old  oak-tree,  stitch- 
ing, but  Josephine  nearly  always  de- 
clined it.  She  was  inij)ervious  to 
colli. 

Then,  her  purse  being  better  filled 
than  formerly,  she  visited  the  pooi 
more  than  ever,  and,  above  all,  the 
young  cou))les  :  and  took  a  warm  in- 
terest in  their  household  matters,  and 
gave  them  muslin  articles  of  her 
own  making,  and  sometimes  sniffed 
the  soup  in  a  }oung  housewife's  pot, 
and  took  a  fancy  to  it,  and,  if  invited 
to  taste  it,  paid  her  the  compliment 
•of  eating  a  good  plateful  of  it,  and 
said  it  was  better  soup  than  the  cha- 
teau produced  ;  and  thought  so  ;  and 
whenever  some  peevish  little  brat  set 
up  a  yell  in  its  cradle,  and  the  father 
shook  his  list  at  the  destroyer  of  hii 
peace,  Madame  Raynal's  lovely  face 
filled  with  concern,  not  for  the  suffer- 
er, but  the  yeller,  and  she  flew  to  it 
and  ro(-ked  it  and  coa.xed  it  and  con- 


WHITE  LIES. 


207 


soled  it,  and  the  young  liousewifc 
smiled,  and  stopped  its  mouth  by  oth- 
er means.  And,  besides  the  five-franc 
pieces  she  gave  tlie  infants  to  hold, 
these  visits  of  Madame  Kaynal  were 
always  followed  by  one  from  Jacintha 
with  a  basket  of  provisions  on  her 
stalwart  arm,  and  honest  Sir  John 
Burgoyne  peeping  out  at  the  corner. 
Kind  and  beneficent  as  she  was,  her 
temper  deteriorated  a  little ;  it  came 
down  from  angelic  almost  to  human. 
Laure  and  Jacintlia  were  struck  with 
the  change,  assented  to  everything  she 
said,  and  encouraged  her  in  every- 
thing it  pleased  her  caprice  to  do. 

Meantime  the  baroness  lived  on  her 
son  Raynal's  letters  (they  came  reg- 
ularly twice  a  month). 

Laure  too  had  a  correspondence,  a 
constant  source  of  delight  to  her. 

Edouard  Kiviere  was  posted  at  a 
great  distance,  and  could  not  visit 
her ;  but  their  love  advanced  never- 
theless rapidly.  Every  day  he  wrote 
down  for  his  Laure  the  acts  of  the 
day,  and  twice  a  week  sent  the  budget 
to  liis  sweetheart,  and  told  her  at  the 
same  time  every  feeling  of  his  heart. 
She  was  less  fortunate  than  he ;  she 
had  to  carry  a  heavy  secret ;  but  still 
she  found  plenty  to  tell  him,  and  ten- 
der feelings  too  to  vent  on  him  in  her 
own  arch,  shy,  fitful  way.  Letters  can 
enchain  hearts  ;  it  was  by  letters  that 
these  two  found  themselves  impercep- 
tibly betrothed. 

Their  union  was  looked  forward 
to  as  certain,  and  not  very  distant. 
Meantime,  it  was  always  a  comfort 
and  a  joy  to  slip  out  of  sight  and  chat 
to  the  beloved  one  on  paper.  On  this 
side,  at  least,  all  was  bright. 

One  day.  Dr.  St.  Aubin,  coming 
back  from  Paris  to  Beaurepaire  rather 
suddenly,  found  nobody  at  home  but 
the  baroness.  Josephine  and  Laure 
were  gone  to  Frejus,  —  had  been  there 
more  than  a  week.  She  was  ailing 
again:  so,  as  Frejus  had  agreed  with 
her  once,  Laure  thought  it  might 
again. 

"  I  will  send  for  them  back  now  you 
are  come." 


"  No  !  "  said  the  doctor,  "  why  do 
that  ?  I  will  go  over  there  and  see 
them." 

Accordingly,  a  day  or  two  after 
this,  St.  Aubin  hired  a  carriage  and 
went  off  early  in  the  morning  to  Fre- 
jus. In  so  small  a  place  he  expected 
to  find  the  young  ladies  at  once  ;  but, 
to  his  surprise,  no  one  knew  them  or 
had  heard  of  them.  He  was  at  a  non- 
plus, and  just  about  to  return  home 
and  laugh  at  himself  and  the  baroness 
for  this  wild-goose  chase,  when  he  fell 
in  with  a  face  he  knew,  one  Mivart,  a 
surgeon,  a  young  man  of  some  talent, 
who  had  made  his  acquaintance  in 
Paris.  Mivart  accosted  him  with 
great  respect ;  and,  after  the  first 
compliments,  informed  him  that  he 
had  been  settled  some  months  in  this 
little  town,  and  was  doing  a  fair  stroke 
of  business. 

"Killing  some,  and  letting  Nature 
cure  others,  —  eh  !  monsieur  ?  "  said 
the  doctor. 

Mivart  grinned.  The  doctor  then 
revealed  in  general  terras  the  occa- 
sion that  had  brought  him  to  Fre- 
jus. 

"  Are  they  pretty  women,  your 
friends?  I  think  I  know  all  the 
pretty  women  about,"  said  Mivart, 
with  unpardonable  levity. 

"  They  are  not  pretty,"  replied 
St.  Aubin. 

Mivart's  interest  in  them  faded  vis- 
ibly out  of  his  countenance. 

"But  they  are  beautiful.  The  el- 
der might  pass  for  Venus,  and  the 
younger  for  Hebe." 

"  I  know  them  !  "  cried  he  :  "  they 
are  patients  of  mine." 

The  doctor  colored. 

"  Ah,  indeed  ! " 

"  In  the  absence  of  your  gi-eater 
skill,"  said  Mivart,  politely,  "  it  is 
Madame  St.  Aubin  and  her  sister 
you  are  looking  for,  is  it  not  T  " 

"  Madame  St.  Aubin  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  and  how  stupid  of  me  not 
to  know  by  the  name  who  you  were 
inquiring  for." 

"  It  is  a  curious  coincidence,  cer- 
tainly :  but  it  happens  to   be   a  Ma- 


208 


wniTi:  LIES. 


drttnc  Raynal  I  am  looking  for,  and 
not  a  MiidanR'  St.  Auhin." 

"  Miidaini.'  K:i\  nal  ?  don't  know 
her." 

Mivart  tlion  oondoli-d  with  the 
doctor  for  this,  tUat  Madame  St.  Au- 
hin wa.s  not  the  friend  he  was  in 
search  of 

"  She  and  her  sister,"  said  he,  "  arc 
so  lovely  they  make  one  ill  to  look  at 
tliein  :  the  deepest  hlue  eyes  you  ever 
saw,  hoth  of  them  :  hi^li  foreheads, 
teetli  like  ivory  mixed  with  ])earl,  such 
aristocratic  feet  and  hands,  and  llieir 
arms  — oh  !  "  and,  by  way  of  freneral 
summary,  the  youn<^  surtreon  kissed 
the  tips  of  his  (in;;ers,  and  was  silent : 
laiiLTuape  succunihed  under  the  theme. 

The  doctor  smiled  coldly. 

"  If  you  had  come  an  hour  sooner, 
you  might  have  seen  Mademoiselle 
Laure  ;  she  was  in  the  town." 

"  Mademoiselle  Laure  ?  who  i.s 
that?" 

"  Why,  Madame  St.  Aubin's  sis- 
ter." 

"  Hum !  where  do  these  paraj;ons 
live  ? " 

"  They  lodge  at  a  small  farm  :  it 
belongs  to  a  widow  :  her  name  is 
Roth." 

They  parted. 

Doctor  St.  Auhin  walked  slowly 
towards  his  carriage,  his  hands  behind 
him  ;  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  He 
b.ide  the  driver  inquire  where  the 
Widow  Roth  lived,  and  learned  it  was 
about  half  a  league  out  of  the  town. 
He  drove  to  the  farm-house  :  when 
the  carriage  drove  up,  a  young  lady 
looked  out  of  the  window,  on  the 
first  floor.  It  was  Laure  de  Beaure- 
paire.  She  caught  the  doctor's  eye, 
and  he  hers.  She  camo  down  and 
welcomed  him.  She  was  all  in  a 
flutter. 

"  How  did  you  find  us  out  1  " 

"From  your  medical  attendant," 
saiil  the  doctor,  dryly. 

Laure  looked  keenly  in  his  face. 

"  He  said  he  was  in  attendance  on 
two  paragons  of  t)eauty, —  blue  eyes, 
white  teeth  and  arms." 

"And  you  found  us  out  by  that?  " 


inquired  Laure,  looking  still  more 
keenly  at  him. 

"Hardly;  but  it  was  my  last 
chance  of  finding  you,  so  I  came. 
Where  is  Madame  Uaynal  ]  " 

"  Come  into  this  room,  dear  friend. 
I  will  go  and  find  her." 

Full  twenty  minutes  was  the  doc- 
tor ke])t  waiting,  and  llien  in  came 
Laure,  gayly  crying  :  — 

"  I  have  hunted  her  hi[:h  and  low, 
and  where  do  you  tliink  my  lady 
was  ?  Sitting  out  in  the  garden,  — 
come." 

Sure  enough,  they  found  Josephine 
in  the  garden,  seated  on  a  low  chair. 
She  smiled  when  the  doctor  came  up 
to  her,  and  asked  after  her  mother. 
There  was  an  air  of  languor  about 
her  ;  her  color  was  clear,  delicate,  and 
beautiful. 

•'  You  have  l)cen  unwell,  my  child  ? " 

"  A  little,  dear  friend  :  you  know 
me  :  always  ailing,  and  tormenting 
those  I  love." 

"  Well  I  but,  Josephine,  this  place 
and  this  sweet  air  always  sets  you  up. 
Look  at  her  now,  doctor ;  did  you 
ever  sec  her  look  better  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  How  can  you  say  so  ?  See  what 
a  color.  I  never  saw  her  look  more 
lovely." 

"  1  never  saw  her  look  so  lovely  : 
but  I  have  seen  her  look  better. 
Your  pulse,  my  child  !  A  little  lan- 
guid 7  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  a  little." 

"  Do  you  stay  at  Beaurcpairc  ?  " 
inquired  Laure  ;  "  if  »o,  we  will  come 
h(imc." 

"  You  will  stay  here  another  fort- 
night," said  the  doctor,  authorita- 
tively. 

"  Prescribe  some  of  your  nice  ton- 
ics for  me,  doctor,"  said  Josephine, 
coaxingly. 

"  No  !  I  can't  do  that:  you  are  in 
the  hands  of  another  practitioner." 

"  What  docs  that  matter  i  You 
were  at  Paris." 

"  It  is  not  the  etiquette  in  our 
profession  to  interfere  with  another 
man's  patients." 


WHITE   LIES. 


209 


"  O  dear  !  I  am  so  sorry,"  began 
Josephine. 

"I  see  nothing  here  that  my  good 
friend  Mivart  is  not  competent  to 
deal  witli,"  said  the  doctor,  interrupt- 
ing her. 

Then  followed  some  general  con- 
versation, at  the  end  of  which  the 
doctor  once  more  laid  his  commands 
on  them  to  stay  another  fortnight 
where  they  were ;  and  he  bade  them 
good  by. 

When  he  was  gone,  Laure  went  to 
the  door  of  the  kitchen,  and  called 
out,  "  Madame  Jouvenel !  Madame 
Jouvenel !  you  may  come  into  tlie 
garden  again  !  " 

The  doctor  drove  away  :  but,  in- 
stead of  going  straight  to  Beaurcpaire, 
he  ordered  the  driver  to  return  to  the 
town.  He  theu  walked  to  Mivart's 
house. 

He  was  an  hour  and  three  quarters 
closeted  with  Mivart. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

Edouard  Riviere  contrived  one 
Saturday  nigiit  to  work  off  all  arrears 
of  business,  and  start  for  Beaurepaire. 
He  had  received  a  very  kind  letter 
from  Laure,  and  his  longing  to  see 
her  overpowered  him.  On  the  road 
his  eyes  often  glittered  and  his  cheek 
flushed  with  expectation.  At  last  he 
got  there.  His  heart  beat ;  for  four 
months  he  had  not  seen  her.  He  ran 
up  into  the  drawing-room,  and  there 
found  the  baroness  alone  ;  she  wel- 
comed him  cordially,  but  soon  let  him 
know  Laure  and  her  sister  were  at  Fre- 
jus.  His  heart  sank.  Frejus  was  a 
long  way  off.  But  this  was  not  all. 
Laure's  letter  was  dated  from  Beau- 
repaire, yet  it  must  have  been  written 
at  Frejus.  He  went  to  Jacintha,  and 
demanded  an  explanation  of  this. 
The  ready  Jacintha  said  it  looked  as 
if  she  meant  to  be  home  directly. 

"  That  is  a  hint  for  me  to  get  their 
rooms  ready,"  said  Jacintha. 


"  This  letter  must  have  come  here 
enclosed  in  another,"  said  Edouard, 
sternly. 

"  Like  enough,"  replied  Jacintha, 
with  an  appearance  of  sovereign  in- 
ditfurence. 

Edouard  looked  at  her.  "  I  will  go 
to  Frejus." 

"  So  I  would,"  said  Jacintha,  fal- 
tering a  little,  but  not  perceptibly  : 
"  you  might  meet  them  on  the  road, 

—  if  so  be  they  come  the  same  road, 

—  there  are  two  roads,  you  know." 
Edouard    hesitated ;  but   he  ended 

by  sending  Dard  to  the  town  on  his 
own  horse  with  orders  to  leave  him 
at  the  inn  and  borrow  a  fresh  horse. 
"  I  shall  just  have  time,"  said  he. 
He  rode  to  Frejus  and  inquired  at 
the  inns  and  the  post-office  for  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Beaurepaire.  They  did 
not  know  her :  then  he  inquired  for 
Madame  Raynal.  No  such  name 
known.  He  rode  by  the  seaside  upon 
the  chance  of  their  seeing  him,  —  no  ! 
He  paraded  on  horseback  throughout 
the  place  in  hopes  every  moment  that 
a  window  would  open,  and  a  fair  face 
shine  at  it,  and  call  to  him,  —  no ! 
At  last  his  time  was  up,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  ride  back  —  sick  at  heart  — 
to  Beaurepaire.  He  told  the  baroness 
with  some  natural  irritation  what  had 
happened.  She  was  as  much  surprised 
as  he  was. 

"  I  write  to  Madame  Raynal  at  the 
post-office,  Frejus,"  said  she. 

"And  Madame  Raynal  gets  your 
letters "?  " 

"  Of  course  she  does,  since  she  an- 
swers them  ;  you  cannot  have  inquired 
at  the  post." 

"  Madame,  it  was  the  first  place  I  in- 
quired at,  and  neither  Mademoiselle 
de  Beaurepaire  nor  Madame  Raynal 
were  known  there." 

Both  parties  were  positive,  and  Ja- 
cintha, who  could  have  given  the  clew, 
seemed  so  puzzled  herself,  that  they 
did  not  even  apply  to  her.  Edouartl 
took  a  sorrowful  leave  of  the  baroness, 
and  set  out  on  his  journey  home. 

Oh  !  how  sad  and  weary  that  ride 
seemed  now   by   what   it   had   been, 


210 


WHITE  LIKS. 


cominp.  IIIm  disappointment  was 
ilcop  ;ind  iniiiitirij:^,  ami,  ere  lie  liiul 
ridden  liail'-wiiy,  u  torturvr  fastened 
on  his  heart.  That  torture  is  called 
suspieion  ;  a  vaj;ue  and  shadowy,  but 
(jipmtio  phantom,  that  oppresses  and 
rends  the  mind  more  terribly  tlian 
certainty.  In  this  state  of  vajjue, 
sickeniufj  suspieiou  lie  remained  .some 
days  :  then  came  an  atleetionate  letter 
from  Laure,  \vho  had  aetually  returned 
home.  In  this  she  expressed  her  re- 
gret and  disapjiointment  at  having 
njissed  him  ;  hhnned  herself  for  mis- 
leading him,  hut  e.\])Iained  that  their 
stay  at  Frejus  had  been  jjrolongtd 
from  day  to  tlay  far  beyond  her  c.\- 
]>eetation.  "  Thestupidity  of  thepost- 
otliee  was  more  than  she  could  account 
for,"  said  she.  But  what  went  fur- 
thest to  console  Kdouard  was  that  af- 
ter this  contreteiii/is  she  never  ceased  to 
invite  him  to  come  to  Beaurcpaire. 
Now  before  this,  though  she  said  many 
kind  and  pretty  things  in  her  letters, 
she  had  never  invited  him  to  visit  the 
cliateau  ;  he  had  noticed  tliis.  "  Sweet 
soul,"  tiiought  he,  "  she  really  is 
vexed.  I  must  be  a  brute  to  think 
any  more  about  it.  Still  — "  So 
this  wound  was  skinned  over. 

At  l.ist,  what  he  called  his  lucky 
star  ordained  that  he  should  Ijc  trans- 
ferred to  the  very  post  his  Comman- 
dant IJaynal  liad  once  occupied.  He 
sought  and  obtained  permission  to  fix 
his  quarters  in  the  little  village  near 
Beaurej)airc.  This  arrangement  could 
not  be  carried  out  for  three  months  ; 
but  the  prospect  of  it  was  joyful  all 
that  time,  — joyful  to  both  lovers. 
Laure  needed  this  consolation,  for  she 
wa.s  very  unhappy.  Her  beloved  sis- 
ter since  their  return  from  Frcjus  had 
fallen  into  a  state  that  gave  her  hour- 
ly sorrow  and  an.xiety.  The  flush  of 
health  was  gone  from  Josephine's 
cheek,  and  so  wa.s  her  late  energy. 

She  fell  back  into  deep  depression 
and  languor,  broken  occasionally  by 
tits  of  nervous  irritation. 

She  would  sit  for  hours  together  at 
one  window.  Can  the  reader  guess 
which    way    that    window    looked  ? 


Lanrc  trembled  for  two  things,  —  her 
life  and  her  reason.  But  Kdouard 
would  come  :  he  was  a  favorite  of 
Josephine  :  he  would  help  to  distract 
her  attention  from  those  sorrows  which 
a  lapse  of  years  alone  could  cure. 

On  every  account,  then,  Kdouard 's 
visit  was  looked  forward  to  with  hojM} 
an<l  joy. 

He  came.  He  was  received  with 
o])en  arms.  He  took  up  his  quarters 
at  his  old  lodgings,  but  spent  his  even- 
ings, and  every  leisure  liour,  at  the 
chateau. 

He  was  very  much  in  love,  and 
showed  it.  He  adlu'red  to  his  Laure 
like  a  leech  ;  and  followed  her  about 
like  a  little  dog,  and  was  always  hap- 
py at  the  bare  sight  of  her. 

This  would  have  ma<le  her  very 
happj-  if  she  had  had  nothing  great  to 
distract  her  attention  and  her  licart ; 
but  she  had  Josepliine,  whose  deep  de- 
pression and  fits  of  irritation  and  ter- 
ror filled  her  with  anxiety;  and  so 
Kdouaid  was  in  the  way  now  and  then. 
On  these  occasions  he  was  too  vain  to 
see  what  she  was  too  jtolite  to  show 
him  otfensively. 

On  this  she  became  vexed  at  his 
obtuseness. 

"  Does  he  think  I  can  be  always  at 
his  beck  and  call  ?  "  said  she. 

"  She  is  always  after  her  sister," 
said  he. 

He  was  just  beginning  to  be  jealous 
of  Josephine,  when  the  following  inci- 
dent occurred :  — 

Laure  and  the  doctor  were  discuss- 
ing Josephine.  Kdouard  pretended 
to  be  reading  a  book,  but  he  listened 
to  every  word. 

At  last,  Dr.  St.  Aubin  gave  it  as 
his  opinion  that  Madame  Kaynal  did 
not  make  enough  blood. 

"  Oh  !  if  I  thought  that !  "  cried 
Laure. 

"  Well,  then,  it  is  .so,  I  assure  you." 

"Doctor,"  said  Laure,  "do  you 
rcmeml)cr,  one  day  you  said  blood 
could  be  drawn  from  young  veins 
and  ])ouied  into  old  ones  ?  " 

"  I  don't  remember  saying  so,  but 
it  is  a  well-known  fact." 


WHITE  LIES. 


211 


"And  healthy  blood  into  a  sick 
patient  1  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  I  don't  believe  it." 

"  Then  you  place  a  very  narrow 
limit  to  science,"  said  the  doctor,  cold- 

"  Did  you  ever  see  it  done  ?  "  asked 
Laure. 

"  I  have  not  only  seen  it  done,  but 
have  done  it  myself!  " 

"  Then  do  it  for  us.  There  's  my 
arm,  take  blood  from  that  for  dear 
Josephine !  "  and  she  thrust  a  white 
arm  out  under  his  eye  with  such  a 
bold  movement  and  such  a  look  of 
fire  and  love  as  never  beamed  from 
common  eyes! 

A  keen,  cold  pang  shot  through  the 
human  heart  of  Edouard  Riviere. 

The  doctor  started  and  gazed  at 
her  with  admiration;  then  he  hung  his 
head. 

"  1  could  not  do  it.  I  love  you 
both  too  well  to  drain  either  of  life's 
current." 

Laure  veiled  her  fire,  and  began  to 
coax. 

"  Once  a  week :  just  once  a  week, 
dear,  dear  doctor :  you  know  I  should 
never  miss  it.  I  am  so  full  of  that 
health  which  Heaven  denies  to  her  I 
love." 

"  Let  us  try  milder  measures  first," 
said  the  doctor.  "  I  have  most  faith 
in  time." 

"  What  if  I  wero  to  take  her  to 
Frejus  :  hitherto  tlie  sea  has  ahvaj^s 
done  wonders  for  her." 

"Frejus  by  all  means,"  said  Ed- 
ouard, mingling  suddenly  in  the  con- 
versation ; "  and  this  time  I  will  go  with 
you,  and  then  I  shall  find  out  where 
you  lodged  before,  and  how  the  boo- 
bies came  to  say  they  did  not  know 
you." 

Laure  bit  her  lip.  It  flashed  across 
her  just  then  how  much  Edouard  was 
in  her  way  and  Josephine's.  Their 
best  friends  are  in  the  way  of  those 
who  have  secrets.  Presently  the  doc- 
tor went  to  his  study.  Edouard  began 
in  a  mock  soliloquy. 

"  I  wonder   whctlier  anv  one   will 


ever  love  mc  well  enough  to  give  a 
drop  of  their  blood  for  me  !  " 

"  If  you  were  in  sickness  and  sor- 
row, —  who  knows  ?  " 

"I  would  soon  be  in  sickness  and 
sorrow  if  I  tiiouglit  that." 

"Don't  jest  with  such  matters, 
monsieur." 

"  I  don't  jest.  I  wish  I  was  as  ill 
as  Madame  llaynal  is,  to  be  loved  as 
she  is." 

"  You  must  resemble  her  in  other 
things  to  be  loved  as  she  is." 

"  You  have  often  made  me  feel  that 
of  late,  dear  Laure." 

This  touched  her.  She  fought 
down  the  kindly  feeling. 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  she,  out  of 
perverseness.  She  added  after  a 
while  :  "  Edouard,  you  are  naturally 
jealous ! " 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world,  Laure, 
I  assure  you.  I  have  many  faults  • 
but  jealous  I  am  not." 

"  You  arc,  and  suspicious,  too : 
there  is  something  in  your  character 
that  alarms  me  for  our  happiness." 

"  There  are  things  in  your  conduct, 
Laui'e,  I  could  wish  explained." 

"  Tlicre  !  I  told  you  so.  You  have 
not  confidence  in  me." 

"  Pray  don't  say  that,  dear  Laure. 
I  have  every  confidence  in  you  :  now 
don't  ask  m.c  to  divest  myself  of  my 
senses  and  my  reason." 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  do  that  or  any- 
thing else  for  me,  —  uu  plaisir." 

"  Where  are  you  going  now  ?  he  ! 
he  !  I  never  can  get  a  word  of  peace 
with  you." 

"  I  am  going  up  stairs  to  mv  sis- 
ter." 

"  Poor  Madame  Raynal,  she  makes 
it  very  hard  for  me  not  to  dislike 
her." 

"  Dislike  mj'  Josephine  1  "  and 
Laure  bristled  visibl}'. 

"  She  is  an  angel,  but  I  should  hate 
an  angel  if  it  came  forever  between 
you  and  me." 

"  P]xcuse  me,  she  was  here  long  be- 
fore you.  It  is  you  that  come  between 
her  and  me." 

"  I  came  because  I  was  told  I  should 


21-2 


WIIITK   LIKS. 


be  welcome,"  said  F.iKnianl,  liitterly, 
and  cquivotatii);^  n  little  :  he  added, 
"  and  I  dare  say  I  siiall  ;,'o,  when  1 
atn  tuid  I  am  one  too  many." 

"  liail  heart  !  who  says  yon  are 
one  too  many  in  tiie  honse  ?  IJiit  you 
are  too  ejiijttiiit,  monsieur  :  you  as- 
sume tlie  husband,  and  you  tease  mc. 
It  is  selfish  :  can  you  not  see  I  am 
anxious  and  worried  ?  you  oujrht  to 
be  kind  to  mc,  and  soothe  mc  :  that  is 
wliat  I  look  for  from  you,  and,  instead 
of  tliat,  you  are  a  never  -  ending 
worry." 

"  1  should  not  be  if  you  loved  me 
as  I  love  you.  I  f^ivc  i/oii  no  rival. 
Shall  I  tell  you  the  cause  of  all  this  ? 
You  have  secrets." 

"  What  secrets  1  " 

"Is  it  me  you  ask?  am  I  trusted 
with  them  ?  Secrets  arc  a  bond  that 
notliing  can  overcome.  It  is  to  talk 
secrets  you  run  away  from  me  to  Ma- 
dame Haynal." 

"  Well'"  said  Laure,  coolly,  "  and 
who  taught  mc  ?  " 

"  Colonel  Dujardin  ?  " 

Laurc  was  taken  quite  aback  :  she 
misunderstood  for  a  moment  the  di- 
rection of  Edouard's  jealousy.  He 
eyed  her  with  swelling  suspicion. 
She  let  him  go  on  this  wrong  tack 
awhile.  By  and  by  she  said  :  "  Was 
it  Colonel  Dujardin  who  taught  mc 
rttiancc?  1  thought  it  had  been 
yourself." 

"  Do  I  deserve  this  sarcasm  ?  The 
reticence  that  springs  from  affection 
is  one  thing:  that  which  comes  from 
the  want  of  it  is  another.  Where  did 
vou  lodge  at  Frcjus,  mademoiselle  the 
lleticcnt  ? " 

"  In  a  grotto,  dry  at  low  water, 
monsieur  the  Incjuisitive." 

"  That  is  enough,  since  you  will 
not  tell  mc,  I  will  find  it  out  before 
I  am  a  week  older." 

"  Monsieur,  I  thank  you  for  play- 
ing the  tyrant  a  little  prematurely  : 
it  has  ])Ut  me  on  my  guard.  Let  us 
part !  we  are  not  suited  to  each 
other." 

"Part!  Laure?  that  is  a  terrible 
word  to  pass  between  you  and  mc. 


Forgive  me  !  I  suppo.sc  I  nm  jeal- 
ous. 

"  You  are,  — you  arc  actually  jeal- 
ous of  my  sister.  Well,  I  tell  you 
jdainly  I  love  you  :  but  I  love  my 
sister  better.  1  never  could  love  any 
man  as  I  do  her  :  it  is  ridiculous  to 
c.\|)ect  it." 

"  And  you  think  I  could  bear  to 
play  second  fiddle  to  her  all  my 
life  ?  " 

"I  don't  ask  you.  Go  and  play 
first  trumpet  with  some  oiher  lady." 

"  You  speak  your  wishes  so  plainly 
now,  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to 
obey." 

He  kissed  her  hand,  and  went  away 
disconsolately. 

Laurc,  instead  of  going  to  Jose- 
phine, her  determination  to  do  which 
liad  mainly  caused  the  quarrel,  sat 
sadly  down,  and  leaned  her  head  on 
her  hand. 

"  I  am  cruel !  I  am  ungrateful  I 
he  has  gone  away  broken-hearted ! 
and  what  shall  I  do  without  him?  — 
little  fool !  I  love  him  better  than  he 
loves  me.  He  will  never  forgive  me  I 
I  have  wounded  his  vanity,  —  and 
they  arc  vainer  than  we  arc!  If  we 
meet  at  dinner,  I  will  be  so  kind  to 
him,  he  will  forget  it  all.  No ! 
Edouard  will  not  come  to  dinner. 
He  is  not  a  spaniel  that  you  can  beat, 
and  then  whistle  back  again.  Some- 
thing tells  me  I  have  lost  him  ;  and, 
if  I  have,  what  shall  I  do  ?  I  will 
write  him  a  note.  I  will  ask  him  to 
forgive  me !  " 

She  sat  down  at  the  tabic,  and  took 
a  sheet  of  note-paper  and  began  to 
write  a  few  conciliatory  words.  She 
was  so  occupied  in  making  these  kind 
enough,  and  not  too  kind,  that  a  light 
step  apjjroachcd  her  unobserved.  She 
looked  up  and  there  was  Edouard. 
She  whipped  the  paper  off  the  table. 

A  spasm  of  suspicion  crossed  Ed- 
ouard's face. 

Laurc  caught  it. 

"  Well,"  said  she. 

"  Dear  Laure,  I  came  back  to  beg 
you  to  forget  what  passed  just  now." 

Laure's   eve    flashed  :    his    return 


WHITE   LIKS. 


213 


showed  her  her  power.  She  abused 
it  directly. 

"  How  can  I  forget  it  if  you  come 
remindinjT  mel " 

"  Dear  Laure,  now  don't  be  so  un- 
kind, so  cruel, — I  have  not  come 
back  to  tease  you,  sweet  one.  I  come 
to  know  what  I  can  do  to  please  you  : 
to  make  you  love  me  again  ?  " 

"I'll  tell  you.  Don't  come  near 
me  for  a  montli." 

Edouard  started  from  his  knees, 
white  as  ashes  with  mortification  and 
wounded  love. 

"  This  is  how  you  treat  me  for 
humbling  myself,  when  it  is  you  that 
ought  to  ask  forgiveness  !  " 

"Why  should  I  ask  what  I  don't 
care  about? " 

"  What  do  you  care  about  ?  —  ex- 
cept that  sister  of  yours.  You  iiave 
no  heart.  And  on  this  cold-blooded 
creature  I  have  wasted  a  love  an  em- 
press might  have  been  proud  of  in- 
spiring !  I  pray  God  some  man  may 
sport  with  your  affections,  you  heart- 
less creature,  as  you  liave  played  witli 
mine,  and  make  you  suffer  what  I 
suffer  now  !  " 

And  with  a  burst  of  inarticulate 
grief  and  rage  he  flung  out  of  the 
room. 

Laure  sank  trembling  on  the  sofa 
a  little  while  :  then  with  a  mighty  ef- 
fort rose  and  went  to  comfort  her  sis- 
ter. 

Edouard  came  no  more  to  Beaure- 
paire. 

There  is  an  old  French  proverb, 
and  a  wise  one,  Rien  n'est  certain  que 
Vimprecu :  it  means  you  can  make 
sure  of  nothing  but  this,  that  matters 
will  not  turn  as  you  feel  sure  they 
will ;  and  for  this  reason  you,  who 
are  thinking  of  suicide  because  trade 
is  declining,  speculation  failing,  bank- 
ruptcy impending,  or  your  life  going 
to  be  blighted  forever  by  unrequited 
love,  — don't  do  it !  —  whether  you  are 
English,  American,  French,  or  Ger- 
man, listen  to  a  man  that  knows  what 
is  what,  and  don't  do  it.  Why  not? 
because  none  of  those  hoi'rors  will  af- 


fect you  as  j'ou  are  prophesying  they 
will.  The  joys  we  expect  are  not 
so  bright,  nor  the  troubles  so  dark,  as 
we  fancy  they  will  be.  Bankruptcy 
coming  is  one  thing,  come  is  quite 
another  :  and  no  heart  or  life  can  be 
really  blighted  at  twenty  years  of  age. 
The  love-sick  girls,  that  are  picked 
out  of  the  canal  alive,  marry  another 
man,  have  eiglit  brats,  and  screech 
with  laughter  when  they  think  of 
sweetheart,  and  probably  blockhead, 
No.  1,  for  whom  tiiey  were  fools 
enough  to  wet  themselves,  let  alone  kill 
themselves.  This  happens  invariably. 
The  love-sick  girls,  that  are  picked 
out  of  the  canal  dead,  have  fled  from 
short-lived  memory  to  eternal  misery, 
from  guilt  that  time  never  failed  to 
cure  to  anguish  incurable.  In  this 
world  rien  n'est  certain  que  Vimprecu. 

Edouard  and  Laure  were  tender 
lovers,  at  a  distance.  How  much 
happier  and  more  loving  they  thought 
they  should  be  beneath  the  same  roof. 
They  came  together.  Their  promi- 
nent faults  of  character  rubbed  :  the 
secret  that  was  in  the  house  did  its 
work :  and,  altogether,  they  quar- 
relled. 

Dard  had  been  saying  to  Jacintha 
for  ever  so  long, "  When  granny  dies, 
I  will  marry  you." 

Granny  died.  Dard  took  posses- 
sion of  her  little  property.  Up  came 
a  glittering  official,  and  turned  him 
out.  He  was  not  her  heir.  Perrin 
the  notary  was  her  heir.  He  had 
bought  the  inheritance  of  her  two 
sons,  long  since  dead. 

Dard  had  not  only  looked  on  the 
cottage  and  cow  as  his,  but  had 
spoken  of  them  for  years.  The  dis- 
appointment, and  the  irony  of  his 
comrades,  ate  into  him. 

"  I  will  leave  this  cursed  place  !  " 
said  he. 

Josephine  instantly  sent  for  him  to 
Beaurepairc.  He  came,  and  was  fac- 
totum, with  the  novelty  of  a  fixed 
salary.  Jacintha  found  him  a  new 
little  odd  job  or  two.  She  set  him 
to  dance  on  the  oak  floors  with  a 
bru^h  fastened  to  his  right  foot ;  and, 


214 


Wlllii:   LIKS. 


tiftor  n  rohoarsiil  or  hvo,  slic  ina<k'  liiin  | 
■wait  at  table.  Did  ii't  Ik-  \nw^  the  | 
thinps  nl)oiit !  and  wiieii  he  in-on;;!it 
a  huly  II  dish,  and  slie  did  not  in- 
stantly attend,  he  ^;ave  her  elbow  a 
poke  to  attraet  attention :  then  tshc 
squeaked  ;  and  he  prinned  at  her 
double  absurdity  in  niimiing  a  touch, 
and  not  minding  the  real  business  of 
the  table. 

His  wronps  rankled  in  him.  lie 
vented  antiijuc  i)hrases. 

"  I  want  a  change,  — this  village  is 
the  last  place  the  Almighty  made," 
etc. 

He  was  attacked  witli  a  moral  dis- 
ease, viz.  he  afTected  the  company 
of  soldiers.  They  had  seen  the  world. 
He  spent  his  weekly  salary  carousing 
with  the  military,  a  class  of  men  so 
brilliant  that  they  are  not  exi)ccted  to 
pay  for  their  share  in  the  drink  ;  they 
contribute  the  anecdotes  and  the  fa- 
miliar appeals  to  Heaven. 

Present  at  many  recitals,  the  heroes 
of  which  lost  nothing  by  being  their 
own  historians,  Dard  imliibed  a  taste 
for  military  adventure.  His  very 
talk,  which  used  to  be  so  liotncly,  be- 
gan now  to  be  tinselled  with  big  swell- 
ing words  of  vanity  imjiorted  from 
the  army.  I  need  hardly  say  these 
bombastical  phrases  did  not  elevate 
his  general  dialect  :  they  lay  distinct 
ujion  the  surface,  "  like  lumps  of  marl 
upon  a  barren  soil,  cncumlicring  the 
ground  they  cannot  fertilize." 

Jacintlia  reminded  him  of  an  in- 
cident connected  with  warfare,  — 
wounds. 

"  Do  yoa  remember  how  you  were 
down  upon  your  luck  when  you  diil  l)Ut 
cut  your  foot  ?  Why,  that  is  nothing 
in  the  army.  They  never  go  out  to 
fight  but  some  come  back  with  arms 
olV,  and  some  with  legs  off,  and  some 
with  heads,  and  some  don't  comeback 
at  ail,  and  how  would  y(ju  like  that?  " 

This  view  of  warfare  at  first  cooled 
Danl's  impatience  for  the  field.  But 
the  fighting  half  of  his  heart  received 
an  ally  in  one  Sergeant  La  Croix  : 
not  a  bad  name  for  a  military  aspi- 
rant.    'I'his  sergeant  was  at  the  vil- 


lage on  a  short  leave  of  absence,  and 
was  now  only  waiting  to  marcli  the 
new  recruits  to  I'aris,  to  join  the  army 
of  tlie  Hhiiie.  Sergeant  J.,a  Croix 
was  a  man  who  could  by  the  force  of 
his  eloquence  make  sohliering  appear 
the  most  delightful  as  well  as  glorious 
of  hum  m  ]iursuits.  His  tongue  fired 
the  inexperienced  soul  with  a  love  of 
arms,  as  do  the  driiins  and  trumpeta 
and  gallant  ringing  tread  of  soldiers 
marching  under  colors  that  blaze  and 
bayonets  that  glitter  in  the  sun.  He 
would  have  been  invaluable  in  Eng- 
land, where  we  recruit  by  jargon.  He 
was  superfluous  in  France,  where  they 
recruited  by  compulsion  :  but  he  was 
ornamental,  and  he  set  Dard  and  one 
or  two  more  on  fire.  Sergeant  La 
Croix  had  so  keen  a  sense  of  military 
glory,  that  he  did  not  deign  to  descend 
to  that  merely  verbal  honor  civilians 
call  veracity. 

To  speak  j)lain!y,  the.sergcant  was 
a  fluent,  fertile,  interesting,  sonorous, 
ever-ready,  and  most  audacious  liar: 
and  such  was  his  success,  that  Dard 
and  one  or  two  more  became  mere 
human  fiction  pipes,  irrigating  a  small 
rural  district  with  false  views  of  mili- 
tary life,  derived  from  that  inexhaus- 
tible sjiriiig.  At  last  the  long-threat- 
ened consL'ription  was  levied  :  every 
person  fit  to  bear  arms,  and  not 
coming  under  the  allowed  exceptions, 
had  a  number  given  him  ;  and  at  a 
certain  hour  the  numbers  correspond- 
ing to  these  were  deposited  in  an  nrn, 
and  one  third  of  them  were  drawn  in 
presence  of  the  authorities.  Those 
men  whose  numbers  were  drawn  had 
to  go  for  soldiers.  Jacintha  awaited 
the  result  in  great  trenior.  She  could 
not  sit  at  home.  She  left  the  chateau, 
and  went  down  the  road  to  meet 
Dard,  who  had  promised  to  come  and 
tell  her  the  result  as  soon  as  known. 
At  last  slie  saw  him  approaching  in  a 
disconsolate  way. 

"  O  Dard,  speak !  are  we  un- 
done 1  are  you  a  dead  man  ?  "  cried 
she. 

"  What  d'  ye  mean  ?  " 

"  Have  they  made  a  soldier  of  you  ?  " 


AVHITE  LIES. 


215 


"  No  such  luck  :  I  shall  die  a  man 
of  all  work." 

"  And  you  are  sorry  ?  you  unnatu- 
ral little  monster!  you  have  no  feel- 
ing for  me,  tiicn  1 " 

"  0  yes !  I  have ;  but  glory  is 
No.   1   with  mc  now,  citizeness  !  " 

"How  loud  the  little  bantams 
crow !  You  leave  glory  to  six  feet 
high,  Dard." 

''  General  Bonaparte  is  n't  much 
higher  than  I  am,  and  glory  sits  upon 
his  brow.  Why  shouldn't  glory  sit 
upon  my  brow  1  " 

"  Because  it  would  weigh  you  down, 
and  smother  you,  you  little  fool." 

"  O,  we  know  you  girls  don't  care 
for  reputation." 

"  Don't  we,  though  ?  " 

"  But  you  care  for  the  blunt." 

"  Agreed  !  " 

"  Well,  then,  soldiers  are  the  boys 
that  make  it." 

"  La !  Dard,  I  never  heard  that 
before." 

"  At  the  wars  I  mean  :  pillaging 
and  cetera,  not  on  three  sous  a  day 
here  at  home  of  course.  Why,  Jacin- 
tha,"  said  Dard,  lowering  his  voice 
mysteriously,  "  there 's  scarce  a  sol- 
dier in  the  army  that  has  n't  got  a 
thousand  francs  hid  in  his  knapsack." 

"  La  !  now  !  But,  then,  what  is  the 
use  of  it  if  he  is  to  be  killed  next 
minute  ?  " 

"I'll  tell  j-ou.  When  the  soldier 
is  dead  —  " 

"  Yes,  Dard." 

"  The  general  turns  it  into  paper 
money,  and  sends  it  home  to  the  Min- 
ister of  War." 

"  Ay  !  like  enough." 

"  He  takes  it,  and  puts  as  much  to 
it  out  of  the  public  chest :  then  he 
sends  it  all  to  the  dead  man's  wife,  or, 
if  he  has  got  no  wife,  to  his  sweet- 
heart. Then  with  that  she  can  marry 
the  chap  that  she  has  been  taking  up 
with  all  the  time  the  first  was  getting 
his  brains  knocked  out.  O,  I  am  up 
to  all  the  moves  now  !  " 

"  But,  Dard,  you  forget,  I  could  n't 
bear  you  to  be  killed  at  any  price." 

"No  more  could  I,"  was  the  frank 


reply  ;  "  but  I  should  n't.  The  ene- 
my always  fire  too  high:  that's 
through  nervishness  !  We  've  licked 
'em  so  often.  Most  of  the  bullets  go 
over  our  army  altogether  into  the 
trees  round  about  the  field  of  battle  : 
the  chaps  that  do  get  killed  are  your 
six-foot  ones  :  their  stupid  heads  are 
always  in  the  way  of  everything,  you 
know.  My  heart  is  quite  down  about 
it,  girl.  Here  is  my  number,  ninety- 
nine!" 

"  And  it  was  not  drawn  Dard,  you 
are  sure  1  " 

"  No  !  I  tell  you  that  I  saw  them  all 
drawn.  I  saw  the  last  number  in  the 
gentleman's  hand  :  it  was  sixty  some- 
thing. So  I  came  to  tell  you,  because 
—  because  —  " 

"  Because  you  were  as  glad  as  I 
am.  I  don't  think  but  what  a  bullet 
would  kill  a  little  one  as  well  as  a  big 
one.  You  are  well  out  of  that,  Dard. 
Come  and  help  me  draw  the  water." 

"  Well !  since  there  is  no  immortal 
glory  to  be  picked  up  to-day,  I  will  go 
in  for  odd  jobs  again." 

"  That  is  you,  i:)ard.  That  is  what 
you  are  fittest  for." 

While  they  were  drawing  the  water, 
a  voice  was  heard  hallooing.  Dard 
looked  up,  and  there  was  a  rigid  mili- 
tary figure,  with  a  tremendous  mus- 
tache, peering  about.  Dard  was  over- 
joyed. 

"  It  is  my  friend !  it  is  my  boon 
companion !  Come  here,  old  fellow. 
Ain't  I  glad  to  see  you  !  that  is  all  1  " 

La  Croix  marched  towards  the 
pair. 

"  What  are  you  skulking  here  for, 
recruit  ninety-nine  ?  "  said  he,  sternly, 
dropping  the  boon  companion  in  the 
sergeant :  "  the  rest  are  on  the  road." 

"  The  rest,  old  fellow  ?  what  do  you 
mean  ?  why,  I  was  not  drawn." 

"  Yes,  you  were." 

"No,  I  wasn't." 

"  Thunder  of  war,  but  I  say  you 
were.    Yours  was  the  last  number." 

"  That  is  an  unlucky  guess  of  yours, 
for  I  saw  the  last  number.  Look 
here  "  :  and  he  fumbled  in  his  pocket 
and  produced  his  number. 


216 


WHITK   LIKS. 


La  Croix  instantly  fished  out  acor- 
rcspondinjj  niimher. 

"  W'tll  :  ami  Iutl'  you  arc  :  tliis  was 
the  last  nunihcr  drawn." 

Dard  l)ur,st  out  lau^chin;;. 

"  You  f^oosc,"  said  he,  "  that  is  six- 
ty-six, —  look  at  it." 

"  .Sixty-six,"  roared  the  sergeant, 
"  no  more  than  yours  is,  —  they  are 
both  sixty-sixes  when  you  play  tricks 
with  them,  and  turn  tiieiii  uji  like 
that :  but  tiicy  arc  hoih  ninety-nines 
when  you  look  at  them  fair." 

Dard  scratched  his  head. 

"  Come,  no  shirking  :  make  up  his 
bundle,  girl,  and  let  us  be  oB',  we  have 
got  our  marching  orders.  Wc  are 
going  to  the  Kliiiic." 

"  And  do  you  think  I  will  let  him 
go?"  screamed  Jacintlia.  "No!  I 
will  say  one  word  to  Madame  Kaynal, 
and  she  will  buy  him  a  substitute  di- 
rectly." 

J)ard  stopped  her  fiercely. 

"  No  !  I  have  told  all  in  the  village 
that  I  would  go  the  first  chance  :  it  is 
come,  and  I'll  go.  I  won't  stay  to  be 
laughed  at  about  this  too.  If  I  was 
sure  to  be  cut  in  jjieces,  I  'd  go  !  give 
over  blubbering,  my  lass,  and  get  us  a 
bottle  of  the  best  wine,  and  while  we 
arc  drinking  it,  the  sergeant  and  I, 
you  make  up  my  bundle.  I  shall 
never  do  any  good"  here." 

Jacintha  knew  the  obstinate  toad. 
She  did  as  she  was  bid,  and  soon  the  lit- 
tle bundle  was  ready,  and  the  two  men 
faced  the  wine :  La  Croix,  radiant 
and  bellicose,  —  Dard,  crestfallen  but 
dogged  (for  there  was  a  little  bit  of 
good  French  stulT  at  the  bottom  of 
the  creature),  and  Jacintha  rocking 
herself,  with  her  apron  over  her 
head. 

La  Croix.  "I  '11  give  you  a  toast. 
'  Here  's  gunpowder.'  " 

JncinOia.    "  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  " 

Dard  (angrily).  "Do  drop  that, 
Jacintha,  —  do  you  think  that  is  en- 
c<juraging  ?  Sergeant,  I  told  this 
poor  girl  ail  about  glory  before  you 
came,  but  she  was  not  ripe  for  it,  — 
say  something  to  cheer  her  up,  for  I 
can't." 


"  I  can  !  "  cried  this  trumpet  of 
battle,  emptying  its  glass.  "  Atten- 
tion, voung  woman." 

"  (")  dear!   O  dear!  yes,  sir." 

"A  French  soldier  is  a  man  who 
carries  France  in  his  licart." 

"  But  if  the  cruel  foreign  soldiers 
kill  him?    oh!" 

"  If  they  do,  he  does  not  care  a  — . 
Every  muu  must  die  :  horses  likewi.se 
and  dogs,  and  donkeys  when  they 
come  to  the  end  of  their  troubles. 
But  dogs  and  donkeys  and  chaps  in 
blouses  can't  die  gloriously  as  Dard 
may,  if  he  has  any  luck  at  all :  so 
from  this  hour,  if  there  was  twice  as 
little  of  him,  be  proud  of  him,  for 
from  this  time  he  is  a  part  of  France 
and  her  renown.  Come,  recruit  nine- 
ty-nine, shoulder  your  traps  at  duty's 
call,  and  let  us  go  off  in  form.  At- 
tention ! !  Quick,  march  !  Ten  thou- 
sand devils  !  is  that  the  way  I  showed 
you  to  march  ?  Did  n't  I  tell  you  to 
start  from  tiie  left  leg  ?  Now  try 
again.  Quick — march!  left,  right 
—  left,  right — left,  right.     Now  you 

've  GOT  it UKAT  yc —  KEEP  it,  left, 

right  —  left,  right  —  left,  right.  And 
the  sergeant  marched  the  little  odd- 
jobber  to  the  wars. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

Josephine.  "  Laure,  the  doctor  is 
cold  lo  me." 

Lnure.   "  And  to  me  too." 

Josephine.  "  I  have  noticed  it  ever 
since  wc  came  from  Frejus,  Laure." 

Laure.  "  Yes,  and  1  have  no  pa- 
tience with  him  :  of  course  you  know 
whv  it  is  ?  " 

Josephine.  "  No  !  would  to  Heaven 
I  did  !  " 

Laure.  "  It  is  jealousy  :  these  men 
are  twice  as  jealous  as  we  are,  and 
about  twice  as  many  things.  We 
had  another  doctor  at  Frejus." 

Josephine.  "  But  how  couhl  I  help  ? 
No !  It  must  be  more  than  that.  Oh  I 
if  he  suspects ! ! !  " 

Laure.   "  No,  dear  !  now  don't  tor- 


AVHITE  LIES. 


217 


ment  yourself.  I  saw  his  face  when 
he  said,  *I  decline  to  interfere  with 
another  doctor's  patients  ! '  '  Another 
doctor's  patients  too  ! '  such  a  phrase  !  " 

Josephine.  "  Pray  Heaven  you  may 
be  right !  He  is  very  cold  to  us,  es- 
pecially to  me." 

Laure  (sharplv).  "  Don't  be  fanci- 
ful, dear." 

Josephine.  "  Forgive  me.  Let  us 
speak  of  something  else.  What  have 
you  done  to  Edouard  1  " 

iMure.  "  That  is  a  question  I  have 
answered,  let  me  see,  twelve  times." 

Josephine.  "  Yes,  Laure,  but  your 
answers  were  no  answers  at  all,  and  I 
want  the  truth." 

Laure.  "  He  is  a  little  ill-tempered, 
jealous,  tyrannical  wretch." 

Josephine.  "  Who  is  he  jealous 
of?" 

Laure  made  a  face,  and  began  to 
count  on  her  fingers.  "  First,  of  Ca- 
millc  Dujardin." 

Josephine.   "  Oh  !  " 

Laure.  '  Secondly,  of  Josephine  de 
Beaurepaire." 

Josephine.    "  Ah  !  " 

Laure.  "  Thirdly,  of  all  the  world." 

Josephine.  "  I  must  hear  his  ac- 
count, and  make  you  friends  again." 

Laure  opened  her  mouth  to  remon- 
strate, but  Josephine  implored  her  to 
let  her  have  her  own  way. 

"  I  have  not  many  joys,  Laure  : 
this  one  we  can  all  have,  the  pleasure 
of  making  peace  between  our  friends 
that  misunderstand  one  another." 

"  M)'  poor  sister  !  "  cried  Laure, 
"  when  will  you  think  of  yourself,  and 
leave  fools  and  egotists  to  mend  their 
own  breakages  1  " 

"  You  consent  to  my  interference, 
Laure  ?  " 

No  answer. 

Edouard,  the  moment  his  temper 
.?ooled,  became  very  sad.  He  longed 
to  be  friends  again  with  Laure,  but  he 
did  not  know  how.  His  o\\ti  pride 
held  him  back,  and  so  did  his  fear 
that  he  had  gone  too  far,  and  that  his 
offended  mistress  would  not  listen  to 
an  offer  of  reconciliation  from  him. 
10 


What  a  change  !  He  sat  down 
alone  now  to  all  his  little  meals.  No 
sweet  mellow  voices  in  his  ear,  after 
the  fatigues  of  the  day. 

His  landlady  brought  him  in  a  letter 
in  a  lady's  handwriting.  His  heart 
gave  a  leap.  But,  on  examining  it, 
he  was  disappointed.  It  was  some- 
thing like  Laure's,  but  it  was  not  hers. 
It  proved  to  be  three  lines  from  Jose- 
phine, requestins  him  to  come  and. 
speak  to  her.  He  went  over  directly. 
Josephine  was  in  the  Pleasance. 

"  What  has  she  been  doing  to  you, 
dear  ?  "  began  she,  kindly. 

"  Has  not  she  told  you,  Madame 
Eavnal  ?  " 

''  No !  " 

"  But  she  has  told  you  what  /  said 
to^e>"?"  said  Edouard,  looking  un- 
easy. 

"  No  :  she  is  refractory.  She  will 
tell  me  nothing  ;  and  that  makes  me 
fear  she  is  the  one  in  fault." 

"  O,  if  she  does  not  accuse  me,  I 
am  sure  I  will  not  accuse  her.  I  dare 
say  I  am  to  blame  :  it  is  not  her  fault 
that  I  cannot  make  her  love  me." 

"  But  you  can  :  she  does." 

"  Yes  !  but  she  loves  others  better, 
and  she  holds  me  out  no  hope  it  will 
ever  be  otherwise.  You  are  an  angel, 
Josephine  ;  but  on  this  one  point  how 
can  I  hope  for  your  sympathy.  Alas ! 
you  are  my  most  terrible  rival." 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  She  told  me  plainly  she  never 
could  love  me  as  she  loves  you  " 

"  And  you  believed  her  ?  " 

"  I  saw  no  reason  to  disbelieve 
her." 

"  Foolish  boy  !  Dear  Edouard,  you 
must  not  attach  so  much  importance 
to  every  word  we  say.  Does  my  sis- 
ter at  her  age  know  everything  1  is 
she  a  prophet ;  Perhaps  she  really 
fancies  she  will  always  love  her  sister 
as  she  does  now ;  but  you  are  a  man 
of  sense  :  you  ought  to  smile  and  let 
her  talk.  When  you  marry  her  you 
will  take  her  to  your  own  house.  She 
will  only  see  me  now  and  then.  She 
will  have  you  and  your  affection  al- 
ways present.     Each  day  some  new 


218 


wnm:  LiKS. 


tic  Iwtwccn  }uii  iiiiil  lier.  You  two 
will  share  every  joy,  every  sorrow. 
Your  eliiKlreii  playinp  at  your  feet, 
nud  re(kTtii)};  the  features  of  both 
jiarents,  will  make  you  cue  :  yotir 
hearts  will  ineit  to;;ether  in  that  lilesscd 
union  which  rai>es  earth  so  near  to 
heaven  ;  anil  then  you  will  wonder 
you  eould  ever  be  jealous  of  poor 
Josejihine,  who  must  never  hojK;  — 
ah  !  me !  " 

Edouard,  wrapped  up  in  himself, 
mistook  Josephine's  emotion  at  the 
picture  she  had  drawn  of  eonjufral 
love.  He  soothed  her,  vowe<l  upon 
his  honor  he  never  would  separate 
Liiure  from  her. 

"  My  dear  sister,"  he  cried  :  "  you 
arc  an  an{;cl  and  I  am  a  fiend.  Jeal- 
ou.sy  must  Iw  the  meanest  of  all  sent! 
ments.  I  never  will  be  jealous  a;i;ain, 
—  above  all,  jealous  of  you,  sweet 
angel  :  after  all,  you  are  my  sister,  as 
well  as  hers,  and  she  has  a  right  to 
love  you  since  I  love  you." 

"  You  make  mc  very  happj-  when 
you  talk  so,"  sighed  Josephine : 
"  peace  is  made?  " 

"  Never  again  to  be  broken.  T  will 
go  and  ask  her  pardon.  What  is  the 
matter  now  ?  " 

Jacintha  was  cackling  very  loud, 
and  dismissing  witli  ignominy  two 
beggars,  male  and  female. 

Jacintha  was  industry  personified, 
and  had  no  sympathy  with  mendicity. 
In  vain  the  coii]ile  jirotcstcd,  Heaven 
knows  with  what  truth,  that  they  were 
not  beggars,  but  mechanics  out  of 
work.  "  March  !  tramp  !  "  was  Ja- 
eintha's  legist  word.  She  added,  giving 
the  rein  to  her  imagination,  "  I  '11 
loose  the  dog."  The  man  moved 
away,  tlie  woman  turned  appealingly 
to  Edouard.  He  and  Josephine  came 
towanls  the  group.  She  had  got  a 
sort  of  large  hood,  and  in  that  hood 
she  carried  an  infant  on  her  shoul- 
ders. Josephine  inspected  this  ar- 
rangement. 

"  It  looks  sickly,  poor  little  thing." 

"  What  can  you  expect,  my  young 
lady?  its  mother  had  to  rise  and  go 
about  when  she  ought  to  have  been  in 


he  has  not  enough 


not   sec   she   was 
franc  into  the  iu- 


her  bed  :  and  now 
to  give  it." 

"  ()  dear  !  "  cried  Josephine.  "Ja- 
cintha," she  cried,  "  give  them  some 
good  food,  and  a  nice  bottle  of  wine." 

"  That     I     will,"     cried    Jaciniha, 
changing  her  tone,   with   courtier-like 
alacrity.       "  I    did 
nursing." 

Josephine  put  a 
fant's  hand  :  the  little  fingers  closed  on 
it  with  that  instinct  of  appropriation, 
which  is  our  first,  and  often  our  last 
sentiment.  Josephine  smiled  lovingly 
on  the  child,  and  the  child  seeing  that 
gave  a  small  crow. 

"  Bless  it,"  said  Josephine,  and 
thereupon  her  lovely  head  reared  it- 
self like  a  crested  snake's,  and  then 
darted  down  on  the  child :  and  the 
young  noble  kissed  tlie  beggar's  brat 
as  if  she  would  eat  it. 

This  won  the  mother's  heart  more 
than  even  the  gifts. 

"Blessings  on  you,  my  lady,"  she 
cried.  "  I  pray  the  Lord  not  to  forget 
this  when  a  woman's  trouble  comes 
on  you  in  your  turn !  It  is  a  small 
child,  mademoiselle,  but  it  is  not  an 
unhealthy  one.  See.  Inspection  was 
oflered  and  eagerly  accepted. 

lulouard  stood  looking  on  at  some 
distance  in  amazement,  mingled  with 
disgust. 

"  Ugh  !  "  said  he,  when  she  re- 
joined him,  "how  could  you  kiss 
that  nasty  little  brat?  " 

"  Dear  I'-douard,  don't  speak  so  of 
a  poor  little  innocent.  Who  would 
pity  them  if  we  women  did  not  ?  It 
iiad  lovely  eyes." 

"  Like  saucers  !  " 

"  Yes." 

"  It  is  no  comy)limcnt  when  yoti 
are  affectionate  to  anybody :  you 
overflow  with  benevolence  on  all 
creation  ;  like  the  rose  which  sheds 
its  perfume  on  the  first  comer." 

"If  he  is  not  going  to  be  jeal- 
ous of  me  next !  "  whined  Josephine. 

She  took  him  to  Laurc,  and  she 
said  :  "  There,  whenever  good 
friends  quarrel,  it  is  understood  they 
were  both  in  the  wrong.     By -gones 


WHITE  LIKS. 


219 


are  to  be  by-goncs,  and,  when  your 
time  comes  round  to  quarrel  again, 
please  consult  me  first,  since  it  is  me 
you  will  atHict." 

She  left  thcni  together  and  went 
and  tapped  liaiidly  at  the  doctor's 
study. 

Monsieur  St.  Aubin  received  her 
with  none  of  that  coldness  she  had 
seen  in  him.  He  appeared  both  sur- 
prised and  pleased  at  her  visit  to  his 
little  sanctum.  He  even  showed  an 
emotion  Josephine  was  at  a  loss  to 
account  for.  But  that  wore  off  dur- 
ing the  conversation. 

"  Dear  friend,"  said  she,  "  I  come 
to  consult  you  about  Laurc  and  Ed- 
ouard." 

She  then  told  him  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  hinted  at  Edouard's  one 
fault. 

The  doctor  smiled. 

"  It  is  curious,"  said  he.  "  You 
have  come  to  draw  my  attention  to 
a  point  on  which  it  has  been  fi.xed 
for  some  days  past.  I  am  preparing 
a  cure  for  the  two  young  fools :  a 
severe  remedy,  but  in  their  case  a 
sure  one." 

He  then  showed  her  a  deed,  where- 
in he  had  settled  sixty  thousand 
francs  on  Laure  and  her  children. 

"  Edouard  has  a  good  place.  He 
is  active  and  rising,  and  with  my 
sixty  thousand  francs,  and  a  little 
purse  of  ten  thousand  mone  for  fur- 
niture and  nonsense,  they  can  marry 
next  week  if  they  like.  Yes,  mar- 
riage is  a  medicine  which  acts  dif- 
ferently on  good  men  and  good  wo- 
men. She  does  not  love  him  quite 
enough.  Cure  —  marriage.  He 
loves  her  a  little  too  much.  Cure  — 
marriage  !  " 

"  O  doctor  !  " 

"  Can't  help  it.  I  did  not  make 
men  and  women.  We  must  take 
human  nature  as  we  find  it,  and 
thank  God  for  it  on  the  whole.  Have 
vou  nothing  else  to  confide  tome,  my 
dear  ? " 

"  No,  doctor." 

"  Are  you  sure,  my  child  ?  " 

"No,  dear  friend." 


"  Then  there  is  only  this  thing 
in  which  I  can  co-operate  with  you  ?  " 

"  But  this  is  very  near  my  heart," 
faltered  Josephine. 

The  doctor  sighed.  He  then  said 
gently  :  — 

"  They  shall  be  happy  :  as  happy 
as  you  wish  tliem." 

Meantime,  in  anotlier  room,  a  rec- 
onciliation scene  was  taking  place, 
and  the  mutual  concessions  of  two 
impetuous,  but  generous  spirits. 

The  doctor's  generosity  transpired 
in  the  house,  and  the  wedding  be- 
came an  understood  thing.  All  Laure 
asked  for  was  to  see  more  color  in 
Josephine's  cheek. 

"  I  could  not  leave  her  as  she  is,  and 
I  will  not." 

"  Why  leave  her  at  all  ?  "  said  Ed- 
ouard ;  "  we  will  have  her  and  nurse 
her  till  my  dear  commandant  comes 
back  to  her." 

The  baroness's  sight  had  failed  con- 
siderably for  some  months  past.  But 
the  change  in  Josephine's  appearance 
was  too  marked  to  escape  her. 

She  often  asked  Laure  ^vha^  could 
be  the  matter. 

"  Some  passing  ailment." 

"  Passing  ?  She  has  been  so,  on 
and  ofi^",  a  long  time." 

"  The  doctor  is  sure  she  will  out- 
grow it." 

"  Pray  Heaven  she  may.  She 
makes  me  very  anxious." 

Laure  made  light  of  it  to  her  moth- 
er, but  in  her  own  heart  she  grew 
more  and  more  anxious  day  by  day. 
She  held  secret  confei'cnces  with  Ja- 
cintha  ;  that  sagacious  personage  had 
a  plan  to  wake  Josephine  from  her 
deathly  languor,  and  even  soothe  her 
nerves,  and  check  those  pitiable  fits 
of  nervous  irritation  to  which  she  had 
become  subject.  Unfortunately  Ja- 
cintha's  plan  was  so  difficult  and  so 
dangerous  that  at  first  even  the  cour- 
ageous Laure  recoiled  from  it ;  but 
there  are  dangers  that  seem  to  dimin- 
ish when  you  look  them  long  in  the 
face. 

The  whole  party  was  seated  in  the 


220 


WHITE  LIKS. 


tajKsirioil  rooin  :  JacintlKi  was  tlicrc, 
sewiii);  a  pair  of  sliocis,  iit  a  ri'spei'tful 
distaiuo  from  tlio  j;eiitlffolks,  iilisorhcd 
ill  licr  work  ;  but  witli  l)otli  cars  on 
full  cock. 

The  doctor,  holilinj;  his  ghisscs  to 
his  eyo,  had  just  begun  to  read  out 
the  Moiiitciir. 

The  baroness  sat  close  to  him  ;  Ed- 
ouard,  opposite  ;  and  the  young'  ladies, 
each  in  her  corner  of  a  large  luxuri- 
ous sofa,  at  some  little  distance. 

"  '  Tiic  Austrinns  left  seventy  can- 
non, eight  thousand  men,  and  three 
colors  upon  the  licld.'     Aha  ! 

"'Army  of  tlic  Nortlu  Gencial 
Menard  defeated  the  enemy  after  a 
severe  engagement,  taking  thirteen 
field-pieces  and  a  ([uantity  of  ammu- 
nition.' The  military  news  ought  to 
be  printed  larger  instead  of  smaller 
than  the  rest." 

J'lie  Itaroness.  "  And  there  is  never 
anything  in  the  Monltrur." 

St.  Aubin.  "  The  deuce  there  is 
not." 

Baroness.  "It  is  always  the  same 
thing  :  it  is  only  the  figures  that  vary. 
80  many  cannon  taken,  so  many  for- 
tresses, and  so  many  colors,  'i'here  is 
never  anything  about  Egypt,  the  only 
thing  that  interests  people." 

St.  Aubin.  "  '  Army  of  the  Rhine.' 
If  I  was  king,  I  would  put  down  small 
type  ;  it  is  the  greatest  foe  knowledge 
has.  'A  sanguinary  engagement, — 
eight  thousand  of  the  enemy  killed  and 
wounded.  We  have  some  losses  to 
lament.    The  Colonel  Dujardin  —  '  " 

Josepliine.    "  Ah  !  " 

Baroness.  "  Only  wounded,  I 
hope?  " 

St.  Aubin.  "  '  At  the  head  of  the 
22d  Brigade,  made  a  brilliant  charge 
on  the  enemy's  Hank,  that  is  described 
in  ttie  general  order  as  having  deciiled 
the  fate  of  the  battle.'  Bravo,  well 
done,  Camille !  " 

BaroncKs.  "  How  badly  you  do  read, 
monsieur.  I  thought  he  was  gone  ; 
instead  of  that  he  has  covered  himself 
with  glory  ;  but  it  is  all  our  doing,  is 
it  not,  young  ladies  ?  We  saved  his 
life." 


Si.  Auliin.  "  We  saved  it  amongst 
us,  inadame." 

KdoHurd.  "  What  is  the  matter, 
Laiire  ?  " 

iMitrc.  "  Notliinjj :  give  me  the 
salts,  (|uick." 

She  only  passed  them,  as  it  were, 
under  her  <i\vn  nostrils  ;  tiien  held  tiiein 
to  Josepliine,  who  w;us  now  observed 
to  be  treiui)ling  all  over.  Laurc  con- 
trived to  make  it  appear  that  this  was 
mere  sym])athy  on  Josephine's  [>art. 

"  Don't  I»e  silly,  girls,"  cried  the 
baroness,  cheerfully;  "there  is  no- 
body killed  that  we  care  about." 

,/ucint/iii.  "  If  you  please,  monsieur, 
is  there  anvlhing  about  JJard  '.  " 

St.  Auliin.  "There  won't  be  any- 
thing about  him,  till  he  is  knocked  on 
the  head. 

Jurintha.  "  Then  I  don't  want  to 
hear  anything  about  liim  at  all." 

At  this  very  moment,  the  new  ser- 
vant, Fancbettc,  whom  the  baroness 
had  hired,  to  Jaeintha's  inlinitc  dis- 
gust, brought  in  the  long-expected 
letter  from  Egypt. 

Baroness.  "  Here  is  something  bet- 
ter than  salts  for  you.  It  is  a  long 
letter,  Josephine,  and  all  in  his  own 
hand.  So  he  is  safe,  thank  Heaven! 
I  was  beginning  to  be  uneasy  again. 
You  frightened  me  for  that  poor  Ca- 
mille; but  this  is  worth  a  dozen  Ca- 
millcs.  This  is  my  son:  I  would  give 
my  old  life  for  him. 

"'My  dear  mother,'  (bless  him!) 
'  my  dear  wife,  and  my  dear  sis- 
ter,' (well,  you  sit  tlicrc  like  two 
rocks!!) — 'We  have  just  gained 
a  battle,  —  fifty  colors.'  (What  do 
you  think  of  that  '.)  '  All  the  enemy's 
baggage  and  ainnmnition  are  in  our 
hands.'  (This  is  something  like  a 
battle,  this  one.)  'Also  the  i'acha  of 
Natolic'  (Ah  !  the  I'acha  of  Naiolic, 
—  an  important  personage,  no  doubt, 
though  I  never  had  the  honor  of  hear- 
ing of  him.  Do  you  hear  ?  —  you  on 
the  sofa.  My  son  has  captured  the 
Pacha  of  Natolie.  He  is  us  brave  as 
Cicsar.)  '  But  this  success  is  not  one 
of  those  that  lead  to  important  re- 
sults,' (never  mind,  a  victory  is  a  vie- 


WHITE  LIES. 


221 


tory  ! )  '  and  I  think  we  shall  be  a  long 
time  in  this  confounded  country.'  " 

Here  a  glance  quick  as  lightning 
passed  between  Josephine  and  Laure. 

"  '  Have  you  news  of  your  patient, 
my  old  companion  in  arms,  Dujardin  1 
I  spoke  of  iiim  to  Bonaparte  tlie  other 
day.  A  thorough  soldier,  that  fel- 
low.' (So  he  is:  and  a  charming 
young  man.)  "  Come  iiere,  Josephine." 
She  read  to  Josephine  in  a  somewhat 
lower  tone  of  voice  :  "  '  Tell  my  wife  I 
love  her  more  and  more  every  day. 
I  don't  expect  as  much  from  her,  but 
slie  will  make  me  very  happy  if  she 
can  make  shift  to  like  me  as  well  as 
her  family  do.'  No  danger  !  What 
husband  deserves  to  be  loved  as  he 
does  ?  I  long  for  his  return,  that  his 
wife,  his  mother,  and  his  sister  may 
all  combine  to  teach  this  poor  soldier 
what  happiness  means.  We  owe  him 
everything,  Josephine,  and  if  we  did 
not  love  him,  and  make  him  liappy, 
we  should  be  monsters ;  now  should 
we  not  ? " 

Josephine   "  Yes." 

"  Now  you  may  all  of  you  read  his 
letter.  Jacintha  and  all,"  said  the 
baroness,  graciously. 

The  letter  circulated.  IMeantime 
the  baroness  conversed  with  St.  An- 
bin  in  quite  an  undertone. 

"  My  friend,  look  at  that  child  ! " 

"  What  child  1  " 

"  Josephine.  See  how  pale  she  is. 
I  noticed  it  the  moment  she  came 
near  me." 

"  Her  nerves  are  weak,  and  I 
frightened  her." 

"  No !  no  !  it  is  more  than  that. 
She  has  lost  her  appetite.  She  never 
laughs.  She  sighs.  That  girl  is  ill, 
or  else  she  is  going  to  be  ill." 

"  Neither  the  one  nor  the  other, 
madame,"  said  St.  Aubin,  looking 
her  coolly  in  the  face. 

"  But  I  say  she  is.  Is  a  doctor's 
eye  keener  than  a  mother's  ?  " 

"  Considerably,"  replied  the  doctor, 
with  cool  and  enviable  effrontery. 

The  baroness  rose. 

"  Now,  children,  for  our  evening 
walk.     We  shall  enjoy  it  now. " 


'■■  I  trust  you  may  :  but  for  all  that 
I  must  forbid  the  evening  air  to  one 
of  tiic  party,  —  to  Madame  Uaynal." 

The  baroness  came  to  him  and 
whispered :  — 

"  That  is  right.  Thank  you.  See 
what  is  the  matter  with  her,  and  tell 
me."  And  she  canied  off  the  rest  of 
the  part}-. 

At  the  same  time  Jacintha  asked 
permission  to  pass  the  rest  of  the 
evening  with  her  relations  in  the  vil- 
lage. 

But  why  that  swift,  quivering 
glance  of  intelligence  between  Jacin- 
tha and  Laui-e  de  Beaurepaire  when 
the  baroness  said:    "Yes,  certainly." 

Josephine  and  the  doctor  were  left 
alone. 

Josephine  had  noticed  the  old  peo- 
ple whisper  and  her  mother  glance 
her  way,  and  the  whole  woman  was 
on  her  guard.  She  assumed  a  languid 
complacency,  and,  by  way  of  shield, 
if  necessary,  took  some  work,  and 
bent  her  eyes  and  apparently  her  at- 
tention on  it. 

The  doctor  was  silent  and  ill  at 
ease. 

She  saw  he  had  something  weighty 
on  his  mind,  and  that  it  w'ould  come 
out,  unless  she  could  divert  it.  A 
vague  fear  prompted  her  to  avoid  all 
weighty  topics.  So  she  said  quiet- 
ly :  — 

"  The  air  would  have  done  me  no 
harm." 

"  Neither  will  a  few  words  with 
me." 

"  O  no !  dear  friend.  I  think  I 
should  have  liked  a  little  walk  this 
evening." 

"  I  played  the  tyrant.  A  friend  is 
sometimes  a  tyrant !  " 

"  I  forgive  yon.  My  walk  is  not 
lost,  since  I  gain  a  (ele-a-tete  with  you 
in  exchange  for  it." 

The  doctor  took  no  notice  of  this 
somewhat  hollow  speech.  There  was 
another  silence.     A  very  long  one. 

"  Josephine,"  said  the  doctor,  quiet- 
ly, "  when  you  were  a  child  I  saved 
your  life." 

"  I   have   often   heard   my  mother 


222 


WHITE  LIES. 


spoak  of  it.  I  wns  clioked  by  the 
croup,  and  you  liail  tlic  counige  to 
laiK-f  my  \viiiiliii|»c." 

"  Ilaii  I  '.  "  said  tlic  doctor,  with  a 
siiiilo.  He  added,  j;i:ivtly,  "  It  socius 
then  that  to  be  cruel  is  sometimes 
kindness.  Josepliinc,  wo  love  those 
whose  life  we  have  saved." 

"  And  they  love  you." 

"  Sin<x'  that  day,  Josephine,  how 
many  kind  otKees,  how  sweet  and  sa- 
cred an  niKetioii,  between  us  two. 
Many  a  father  and  daut:hter  luiyht 
have  taken  a  lesson  from  us." 

"  From  you,  my  second  father,  — 
not  from  me." 

"  Yet  I  have  to  rejiroaeh  you  or 
myself.  For  after  all  tliese  years  I 
have  failed  to  inspire  you  with  confi- 
dence." The  doctor's  voice  was  sad, 
and  Josephine's  bosom  ])anted. 

"  Pray  do  not  say  so,"  she  cried. 
"  I  would  trust  you  with  my  life." 

"But  not,  it  seems,  with  your  se- 
cret." 

"  My  secret  ?  What  secret  ?  I  have 
no  secrets." 

"  Josephine,  you  have  now  for  full 
twelve  months  suffered  in  body  and 
mind ;  yet  you  have  never  come  to 
me  for  counsel,  for  comfort,  for  an 
old  man's  ex[)erience  and  advice,  or 
even  for  medical  aid." 

"  But,  dear  friend,  I  assure  you  —  " 

"  We  do  not  deceive  our  friend. 
We  cannot  deceive  our  doctor." 

Josephine  trembled,  but  women  arc 
not  to  be  drawn  as  men  are.  She 
fought  every  inch  of  ground  after 
the  manner  of  her  sex.  "  Dear  doc- 
tor," said  she,  "I  love  you  all  the 
better  for  this.  Your  regard  for  me 
has  for  once  blinded  your  .science. 
I  am  not  so  robust  as  you  have 
known  me,  but  there  is  nothing  se- 
rious the  matter  with  me.  Let  us 
talk  of  something  else.  Besides,  it 
is  not  interesting  to  talk  alxjut  one's 
self." 

"  Very  well,  since  there  is  nothing 
seriou-i  or  interesting:  in  your  case, 
we  will  talk  almut  something  that  is 
Loth  seri(jus  and  interesting." 

"With   all   mv   heart":    and   she 


smiled  content  at  averting  criticism 
from  herself. 

"  We  will  talk  aliout  YOLii  child!" 

The  work  dropped  from  Josephine's 
hands  ;  she  turned  her  face  wildly  on 
St.  Aubin,  and  with  terrified  eyes 
(ixed  on  him,  faltered  out :  — 

"  M— my  child  f  " 

"  My  words  are  plain,"  replied  he, 
gravely.     "  Your  <  im.u  !  " 


CII AFTER  XXXVI. 

liien  n'est  certain  que  l'impr(fvu. 

"  Our  success  leads  to  no  great  re- 
sults, and  I  tear  we  shall  be  a  long 
time  in  this  conl'ounded  country." 
So  wrote  Kaynal. 

Forty-eight  hours  after  he  was  sail- 
ing Franceward  with  General  Bona- 
parte. That  great  man  dropped 
Egypt  suddenly,  very  suddenly  to 
those  who  confound  the  date  of  an 
act  with  the  date  of  the  secret  deter- 
mination that  has  preceded  it  who 
knows  how  long  1  lie  dropped  Egypt, 
I  not,  as  his  small  critics  fancy,  because 
France  and  he  could  not  have  con- 
trived to  hold  a  comer  of  Egypt  to 
this  day,  but  because  lie  had  discov- 
ered he  could  not  make  of  little  Egypt 
the  great  siepping-stoiic  he  had  in- 
tended. 

Take  this  clew  to  Napoleon  I. 

The  ends  of  ordinary  geniuses  were 
his  means. 

Their  goals  liis  stepping-stones. 

Goes  he  to  Egypt,  he  sure  he  goes 
for  Svria  and  Assyria,  at  lea<t. 

If  Moscow  —  little  city  of  huts  — 
thinks  he  went  to  Moscow  for  Mos- 
cow, it  pays  itself  too  great  a  compli- 
ment, and  him  too  small  a  one.  He 
went  to  Moscow  for  Delhi  and  Can- 
ton. 

And  when  I  think  of  this  trait  in 
him,  with  all  its  mental  consequences, 
I  come  by  my  art,  with  regret,  to  the 
conclusion,  that  XafMilcon  I.  was  at  no 
period  of  his  career  a  happy  man, 
nor,  with  his  gigantic  estimate  of  suc- 
cess, what  he  would  call  a  very  buo- 


WHITE   LIKS. 


223 


cessful  man ;  nor  mnch  gratified  by 
the  successes  that  dazzled  all  the  rest 
of  the  world. 

In  the  magnitude  of  his  views 
Napoleon  will  stand  alone  among  the 
sons  of  earth  till  the  last  trumpet. 
But  one  trait  he  shared  with  every 
successful  genius,  whether  of  the 
sword,  the  ])en,  or  the  brush.  Unsuc- 
cessful geniuses  waste  themselves. 
Successful  geniuses  lay  themselves 
out  to  advantage :  ay,  economize 
themselves,  —  some  by  calculation, 
the  rest  by  instinct.  Napoleon  was 
too  practical  to  waste  Napoleon  long 
on  Egypt.  He  did  not  give  up  the 
little  country  of  the  great  pyramids 
in  despair  :  he  flung  it  up  by  calcula- 
tion. The  globe  offered  greater 
prizes,  —  and  the  globe  was  his  prov- 
ince. 

He  came  swiftly  back  to  Paris,  and 
Kaynal,  who  was  on  his  staff,  came 
with  him,  but  not  to  stay.  He  was 
to  go  off,  without  a  day's  delay,  to 
the  Rhine  with  despatches  and  a  com- 
mand as  brigadier  in  that  army. 


CHAPTER    XXXV^II. 

"Your  child!" 

When  the  doctor  repeated  these 
words,  when  Josephine,  looking  in  his 
face,  saw  he  spoke  from  knowledge, 
however  acquired,  and  not  from 
guess,  she  glided  down  slowly  off  the 
sofa,  and  clasped  his  knees  as  he 
stood  before  her,  and  hid  her  face 
in  an  agony  of  shame  and  terror  on 
his  knees.  In  this  attitude  they  were 
surprised  by  Laure,  who  had  slipped 
back  (on  a  pi'ctence  of  forgetting  her 
gloves)  to  see  what  St.  Aubin  had  to 
say  to  Josephine. 

Laure  opened  the  door  softly.  She 
did  not  arrive  soon  enough  to  hear 
the  terrible  words  ;  but  she  saw  her 
sister  trembling  at  the  doctor's  knees, 
and  she  herself  stood  white  and  pant- 
ing.    "  What  could  it  mean  ^  " 

"  Forgive  me  !  "  cried  Josephine,  in 
a  choking  voice,  —  "  forgive  nic  !     0, 


pray  do  not  expose  me  !     Do  not  de- 
stroy me  ! " 

Laure  lowered  her  head  and  darted 
behind  a  large  screen  that  stood  in 
the  room,  unseen  either  by  the  doctor, 
whose  back  was  turned  to  her,  or  by 
her  sister,  who  was  hiding  her  eyes 
against  the  doctor's  knees. 

The  doctor  raised  Madame  Raynal 
against  her  will.  She  was  so  ashamed 
slie  could  not  bear  him  to  see  her  face. 
But  he  made  her  sit,  and  held  one  of 
her  hands,  and  soothed  her  terror, 
while  she  turned  from  him  and  hid 
her  face  on  her  hand,  and  her  hand 
on  a  corner  of  the  couch. 

"  Shall  I  ever  expose  or  wound 
you,  foolish  one "?  This  is  to  keep 
you  from  exposing  and  destroying 
yourself.  Unhappy  child,  did  you 
think  you  had  deceived  me,  or  that 
you  are  fit  to  deceive  any  but  the 
blind  1  Your  face,  your  anguish  af- 
ter Colonel  Dujardin's  departure,  — 
your  languor,  and  then  your  sudden 
robustness,  your  appetite,  your  ca- 
prices, your  strange  sojourn  at  Fre- 
jus,  your  changed  looks,  and  loss  of 
health  on  your  return  ?  Josephine, 
your  old  friend  has  passed  many  an 
hour  thinking  of  you,  divining  your 
folly,  following  your  trouble  step  by 
step,  not  invited  to  aid  you,  incapable 
of  betraying  you." 

As  he  concluded  these  words,  Laure 
came  running  towards  him  with  tear- 
ful eyes,  and  flung  both  her  arms 
round  his  neck. 

"  Ah,  my  poor  child  !  "  said  he  ; 
"  this  is  not  a  secret  for  one  of  your 
age  to  know  !  " 

"  Josephine  did  not  tell  me,"  was 
the  prompt  answer. 

"  Strange  that  nobody  should  think 
me  a  proper  person  to  be  trusted  !  " 
said  the  doctor. 

"  Dear  doctor !  if  I  liad  respected 
you  less,  I  could  have  borne  to  con- 
fess to  you." 

"  No,  no  !  you  feared  me.  You 
had  no  cause.  You  did  not  trust  me. 
You  had  every  reason  to.  I  will 
show  you  I  was  not  quite  unworthy 
of    the  confidence   you    denied    me. 


22t 


wnrrr:  i,ii;s. 


First,  I  was  wortliy  of  it,  Iiocnusc  I 
iH'viT  lost  my  con  tide  lu-f  in  you,  Jo- 
sephine. Here  were  ail  tiic  si;;ns  of 
nil  illicit  attachment.  Well,  what 
dill  I  sav  i  I  said,  I  know  my  Jose- 
phine. 1  went  to  the  mciiric  at  Frejus 
upon  a  very  dittercnt  pretence.  I 
{;ot  a  si^^lit  of  the  l>ook,s,  and  in  a 
minute  I  found  Caniille's  name  and 
yours.  Such  was  my  confidence  in 
you,  who  had  none  in  me.  I  said 
there  inust  have  heen  a  marriage  of 
some  sort." 

The  doctor   looked   round,    trium- 

I)hant  in  his  own  sajraeity.  Ala.=  ! 
le  missed  the  merited  applause.  Jo- 
sephine looked  in  his  face,  ))U7.7,led. 

"  Dear  friend,"  said  she,  hesitating, 
"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you.  I 
know  your  sagacity,  but  since  you 
had  discovered  I  was  a — a  —  moth- 
er, of  course  you  know  I  must  be  a 
wife.  How  could  I  be  a  mother,  you 
know,  unless  I  was  a  wife  first?  "" 

The  doctor  wore  a  look  half  satiri- 
cal, half  tender :  he  took  a  pinch  of 
snufF.  "  That  is  very  true,"  said  he, 
mighty  dryly.  "  Well,  I  revoke  my 
claim  to  intelligence  on  that  score. 
Let  us  try  again.  Mivart  sent  you 
some  soothing  draughts  after  my  visit 
to  Frejus,  —  magical  ones,  eh  ?  I  pre- 
scribed them." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  dearest,  best  of 
friends,  —  ah!  I  have  been  very  cul- 
pable towards  you." 

"  Try  again  :  a  fortnight  ago,  I  was 
absent  two  days." 

"  Yes !  and  you  never  told  us  where 
yon  had  been." 

"  I  was  at  Frejus :  that  virulent 
disease  the  small-pox  was  there." 

"  O  Heaven  !  "  and  Josephine 
clasped  her  hands  in  terror. 

"  The  danger  i.s  past.  I  heard  of 
it.  Instantly  I  got  some  vaccine  from 
I'aris,  and  I  went  over  to  Frejus,  for 
I  saiil  to  myself —  " 

The  doctor  never  said  it  to  anybody 
but  himself:  for  ere  he  concluded  his 
sentence  he  was  almost  stifled  with 
embraces  and  kisses  by  the  young 
mother.  In  the  midst  of  which  she 
ended  his  sentence  for  him. 


"  You  sail!  :  '  I  saved  Josephine's 
life,  I  will  save  her  l)oy.'  " 

"  We  arc  l)eginning  to  understand 
one  another,"  .said  the  dwtor,  with  a 
strong  tendency  to  whimper,  for  which 
he  took  a  pinch  of  snutf  as  antidote. 
Now,  dears,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  have 
divined,  and  you  slialftell  me  the  rest, 
and  then  we  will  act  in  concert.  The 
news  came  of  Haynal's  death.  Yon 
thought  yourself  "free,  that  I  under- 
stand. But  why  marry  so  soon,  and 
why  not  marry  openly  1 " 

Said  Laure,  hastilv  :  — 

"  It  was  all  his  fault." 

"  Whose  ?  " 

"  No  !  no  !  "  said  Josephine.  "  It 
was  not  bis  fault,  — ah  !  do  not  throw 
the  blame  on  the  absent  and  the  un- 
happy." 

"  1  am  not  going  to  blame  liim 
much,  lie  was  a  man,  and  rc(jnired 
what  I  believe  all  young  men  do,  — 
that  she  should  sacrifice  every  feeling 
to  him.  He  said,  if  you  love  me  vou 
will  marry  me  before  the  ])riest,  and 
erase  from  our  minds  that  other  mar- 
riage.    She  refused." 

"  Say,  rather,  I  hesitated." 

"  Weil !  she  declined  :  then  he  re- 
proached her  !  " 

"  Never !  doctor,  dear  doctor,  Ca- 
mille  never  reproacherl  me  :  he  only 
pined  away  and  doubted  my  love. 
My  resolution  failed :  I  wanted  to 
make  everybody  happy  :  I  volunteered 
to  marry  him  secretly",  not  to  give  my 
mother  pain." 

"She  voluntecR'd  !  "  cried  Laure, 
impatiently.  "It  was  I  who  forced 
that  fatal  measure  on  her :  I  alone 
am  to  blame  :  it  is  she  alone  who 
suffers." 

"  O  concealment !  —  concealment !  " 
cried  the  doctor.  "  But  you  arc  pun- 
ished more  than  you  deserve.  I 
understand  it  all  too  well !  your  story 
is  but  the  story  of  your  sex, —  self- 
sacrifice.  I  dare  say  you  sacrificed 
your  heart  to  your  mother  in  marry- 
ing Colonel  Kavnal." 

"She  did  !—" shedid  !" 

"Then  you  sacrificed  every  feeling 
but   i)ity  to   your   lover.     And    now 


WHITE   LIES. 


225 


you  will  sacrifice  everything  to  your 
husband." 

"  He  is  well  wortliy  of  nny  sacrifice 
I  can  make,"  said  Josephine ;  "  but, 
O  sir,  if  you  knew  how  hard  it  is  to 
me  to  live  !  " 

"  I  hope  to  make  it  less  hard  to 
you  erelong,"  said  the  doctor,  cjuietly. 
He  then  congratulated  himself  on  hav- 
ing forced  Josephine  to  confide  in  him. 
"For,"  said  he,  "you  never  needed 
an  experienced  friend  more  than  at 
this  moment.  Your  mother  will  not 
always  be  so  blind  as  of  late.  Edouard 
is  suspicious.  Jacintha  is  a  shrewd 
young  woman,  and  very  inquisitive." 

Here  the  young  ladies  interchanged 
a  look,  but  were  ashampd  to  own  they 
had  taken  Jacintha  into  their  confi- 
dence. 

"  I  do  not  dwell  much  on  the  ter- 
rible event  of  llaynal's  immediate  re- 
turn :  to-day's  letter  renders  that  im- 
probable. But  improbable  is  not  im- 
possible ;  and  where  all  is  possible, 
and  all  is  danger,  the  severest  caution 
is  necessary  :  first,  then,  what  are  your 
own  plans  ?  " 

"  /  don't  know,"  said  Josephine, 
helplessly. 

"  You  —  don't  —  know !  "  cried  the 
doctor,  looking  at  her  in  utter  amaze- 
ment. 

"  It  is  the  answer  of  a  madwoman, 
is  it  not  ?  Doctor,  I  am  little  bet- 
ter. My  foot  has  slipped  on  the  edge 
of  a  precipice.  I  close  my  eyes,  and 
let  myself  glide  down  it.  What  will 
become  of  me  ?  " 

"All  shall  be  well  if  you  do  not 
still  love  that  man." 

"  I  shall  love  him  to  my  last  breath. 
How  can  I  help  loving  him  ?  He  had 
loved  me  four  years.  I  was  his  be- 
trothed. I  wronged  him  in  my 
thoughts.  War,  prison,  anguish, 
could  not  kill  him  ;  he  loved  me  so. 
He  struggled  bleeding  to  my  feet : 
and  could  I  let  him  die,  after  all  ? 
Could  I  be  crueller  tiian  prison  and 
torture  and  despair  ?  " 

The  doctor  sighed  deeply ;  but,  arm- 
ing himself  with  the  necessary  resolu- 
tion, he  said  sternly  :  — 

10* 


"Josephine,  a  woman  of  your  name 
cannot  vacillate  between  love  and 
honor  ;  such  vacillations  have  but  one 
end.  I  will  not  let  you  drift  a  moral 
wreck  between  passion  and  virtue ; 
and  that  will  be  your  lot  if  you  hesi- 
tate now." 

"  Hesitate  !  Who  dares  to  say  I 
have  hesitated  where  my  honor  is 
concerned  f  You  can  read  our  bodies 
then,  but  not  our  hearts.  What ! 
you  see  me  so  pale,  forlorn,  and  dead, 
and  that  docs  not  tell  you  I  have  bid 
Camille  forewell  forever "?  " 

"Is  it  possible?  Give  me  your 
hand,  —  it  was  well  and  wisely  and 
nobly  done.  And,  who  knows  ?  kind- 
ly too,  ])erhaps." 

Josephine    continued:  — 

"  That  we  might  be  safer  still,  I 
have  not  even  told  him  he  is  a  futhei- : 
was  woman  ever  so  cruel  as  I  am  ?  I 
have  written  him  but  one  letter ;  and 
in  that  I  must  deceive  him.  I  told 
him  I  thought  I  might  one  day  be 
happy,  if  I  could  hear  that  he  did  not 
give  way  to  despair ;  I  told  him  wt 
must  never  meet  again  in  this  world. 
So  now  dispose  of  me.  Show  me  my 
duty,  and  I  will  do  it.  This  false- 
hood wrings  my  heart ;  shall  I  tell  my 
husband  the  truth  1  " 

"  O  no !  no  !  "  cried  Laure,  "  do 
not  let  her.  Colonel  Eaynal  would 
kill  her." 

"  If  I  thought  that,  nothing  should 
stop  mc  from  telling  him." 

Tlie  doctor  objected.' 

"  What,  tell  him,  while  he  is  in 
Egypt?  while  his  return  alive  is  un- 
certain ?  needless  cruelty  !  " 

"  And  then  my  mother  !  "  sighed 
Josephine,  "  my  poor  mother  !  She 
would  hear  it,  and  it  would  break  her 
heart !  I  should  wound  her  to  death  : 
and  I  love  her  so.  I  always  loved 
her :  but  not  as  I  do  since  —  Now 
that  I  know  what  she  has  suffered  for 
me,  my  very  heart  yearns  at  sight  of 
her  dear  face.  I  must  lose  her  one 
day,  I  know  :  but  if  my  misconduct 
were  to  hasten  that  day  — oh!  it  is 
too  horrible.  This  is  my  hope  :  that 
poor  Kaynal  will  be  long  absent,  and 


22G 


WHlTi:   LIKS. 


that,  ore  he  roturnf:.  mamma  will  lie 
safe  from  sorrow  ami  shame  in  the 
little  eha|Hl.  Doctor,  when  a  woman 
of  my  a;,'e  fornis  such  wishes  as  these, 
I  tliink  vou  mi;:tit  jiity  her,  and  for- 
give her  ill  treatment  of  you,  for  she 
cannot  l>c  very  happy.  Ah  me!  ah 
mc !  all  me !  " 

"  Courafre  !  poor  soul !  All  is  now 
in  my  hantls  :  anil  I  will  save  you," 
said  the  doctor,  his  voice  tremhlin^'  in 
spite  of  him.  "  Sin  lies  in  the  inten- 
tion. A  more  innocent  woman  than 
you  docs  not  hreathe.  Two  courses 
lay  open  to  you,  —  t(t  leave  this  house 
with  Camille  Dnjardin,  or  to  dismiss 
him,  ami  live  for  your  hard  duty  till 
it  shall  please  Heaven  to  make  that 
duty  easy  (no  middle  course  was  ten- 
able for  a  day) ;  of  these  two  paths 
you  chose  the  ri;:ht  one,  and,  liaving 
chosen,  you  are  not  called  on  to  re- 
veal your  misfortune,  and  make  those 
unhappy  to  whose  ha])piness  you  have 
eacriticed  your  own  for  years  to 
come." 

"  Forever !  "  said  Josephine,  quietly. 

St-  Atdiin.  "  The  young  use  that 
word  lightly.  The  old  have  almost 
ceased  to  use  it.  They  have  seen 
how  few  earthly  things  can  conquer 
time." 

lie  resumed  :  — 

"  You  think  only  of  others,  Jose- 
phine, hut  I  shall  tliink  of  you  as 
well.  I  shall  not  allow  your  life  to 
be  wasted  in  a  needless  struggle 
against  nature." 

Laure  looked  puzzled  :  so  the  doc- 
tor explained.  Her  griefs  were  as 
many,  before  her  child  was  horn,  yet 
her  health  stood  firm.  Why  ?  be- 
cause nature  was  on  her  side.  Now 
she  is  sinking  into  the  grave.  Why? 
because  she  i*  defying  nature.  Na- 
ture intended  her  to  he  pressing  her 
child  to  her  bosom  day  and  night : 
instead  of  that,  a  ])easant  woman  at 
Frcjus  nurses  the  child,  and  the 
mother  pines  at  Heaurepaire. 

Through  all  this,  Josephine  leaned 
her  face  on  hi-r  hands  ami  her  hamls 
on  the  doctor's  shoidder.  In  this 
attitude  she  murmured  to  him  :  — 


"  1  have  only  spcn  him  once  since 
I  came  from  Fnjus." 

"  Poor  thing  !  " 

"  Since  you  |>ermit  it  I  will  go 
there  to-morrow.  ' 

"  You  will  <lo  nothing  of  the  kind. 
A  second  journey  thither,  when  the 
first  has  awakened  Edouard's  suspi- 
cions ?  I  forbid  it." 

Josephine  was  seized  with  one  of 
her  fits  of  irritation. 

"  Take  care,"  cried  she,  pecking 
round  at  the  doctor  like  an  irritated 
pigeon,  "  don't  be  too  cruel  to  me. 
You  see  I  am  ol)cdient,  resigned.  I 
have  given  up  all  I  lived  for :  but 
if  I  am  never  to  have  my  boy's  little 
arms  round  me  to  console  me,  there 
—  why  torment  me  any  longer  ? 
Why  not  say  to  me,  '  Joscjdiine,  you 
have  offended  Heaven  :  pray  for  par- 
don and  die  '  ? " 

"I  mean  you  to  spend,  not  hours, 
but  months,  beside  your  child,"  said 
the  doctor. 

"Oh!" 

"  Through  him  I  mean  to  save 
your  life,  so  precious  to  us  all.  That 
little  helpless  soul  is  your  guardian 
angel,  he  is  for  some  time  to  come 
your  one  fount  of  hope  and  consola- 
tion. But  it  is  not  at  Frejus  you 
shall  meet,  not  in  a  chattering  village 
within  a  ride  of  Edouard,  but  in 
that  great  city  where  nobody  knows 
or  cares  what  goes  on  next  door." 

"  In  Paris  !  "  cried  Laure. 

"  Certainly  :  I  shall  go  there  to- 
morrow, the  first  thing.  I  shall  take 
a  house  where  I  can  receive  you 
both  ;  and  outside  the  barrier,  where 
the  air  is  ])urest,  Madame  Jonvcnel 
and  her  nursling  shall  live  on  the  fat 
of  the  land,  and  you  shall  spend  the 
d.iys  with  them.  After  all,  my  neph- 
ew was  not  such  a  fool  as  they  say. 
He  divined  what  good  uses  some  of 
his  money  would  be  put  to  by  his  an- 
cestor." 

Jo.sephine's  delight  and  gratitude 
were  somewhat  dashed  when  the  doc- 
tor told  her  all  this  would  take  three 
weeks,  and  that  he  would  not  go  to 
Paris  unless  she  now  promised  him 


WHITE   LIES. 


227 


on  her  honor  not  to  go  to  Frejus  in 
bis  absence. 

She  hesitated. 

"  Promise,  dear,'"  said  Laure,  with 
an  intonation  so  tine  that  it  attracted 
Josephine's  notice,  bnt  not  the  doc- 
tor's. It  was  followed  by  a  glance 
equall}'  subtle. 

"  I  promise,"  said  Josephine,  with 
Her  eye  fixed  inquiringly  on  her  sis- 
ter. 

For  once  she  could  not  make  the 
telegraph  out ;  but  she  could  see  it 
was  playing,  and  that  was  enough. 
She  did  what  Laure  bid  her. 

"  I  promise.    Ah!  —  Forgive  me." 

"  Forgive  you  ?  what  for  ?  " 

"  I  sighed.     It  was  ungrateful." 

"  I  forgive  you,  black-hearted  crea- 
ture," said  the  doctor,  "  but  only 
upon  conditions.  You  must  keep 
your  word  about  Frejus,  and  you 
must  also  promise  me  not  to  go  kiss- 
ing every  child  j'ou  see.  Edouard 
tells  me  he  saw  you  kissing  a  beg- 
gar's brat.  The  young  rogue  was 
going  to  quiz  you  about  it  at  the  din- 
ner-table :  luckily,  he  told  me  his  in- 
tention, and  I  would  not  let  him.  I 
said  the  baroness  would  be  annoyed 
with  you  for  descending  from  your 
dignity,  — and  exposing  a  noble  fam- 
ily to  fleas,  —  hush  !  here  he  is." 

"  Tiresome !  "  muttered  Laure,  just 
when  Edouard  came  forward,  with  a 
half-vexed  face. 

However,  he  turned  it  off  in  play. 

"  Won't  the  doctor  give  you  your 
gloves  ?  " 

"  Scold  him  rather  for  interesting 
me  so  :  for  it  is  he  who  has  detained 
me. 

"  What  have  you  been  saying  to 
her,  monsieur,  to  interest  her  so  ? 
Give  me  a  leaf  out  of  your  book.  I 
need  it." 

The  doctor  was  taken  aback  for  a 
moment,  but  at  last  he  said,  sly- 
ly :  — 

"  I  told  her  nothing  that  will  not 
interest  her  as  much  from  your  lips. 
I  have  been  proposing  to  her  to  name 
the  day.  She  says  she  must  consult 
you  before  she  decides  that." 


"  O    you    wicked    doctor !  —  and 
consult  him,  of  all  people  !  " 

St.  Anbin.  "So  be  off,  both  of 
vou,  and  don't  reappear  till  it  is  set- 
tled." 

Edouard.  "  Come,  mademoiselle, 
you  and  I  arc  de  trap  here." 

Edouard's  eyes  sparkled.  Laure 
went  out  with  a  face  as  red  as  fire. 

It  was  a  balmy  evening.  Edouard 
was  to  leave  them  for  a  week  the  next 
day.  They  were  alone  :  Laure  was 
determined  he  should  go  away  quite 
happy.  Everything  was  in  Edouard's 
favor  :  he  pleaded  his  cause  warmly  : 
she  listened  tenderly  :  this  happy 
evening  her  piquancy  and  archness 
seemed  to  dissolve  with  tenderness  as 
she  and  Edouard  walked  hand  in 
hand  under  the  moon  :  a  tenderness 
all  the  more  heavenly  to  her  devoted 
lover,  that  she  was  not  one  of  those 
angels  that  cloy  a  man  by  invariable 
sweetness. 

For  a  little  while  she  forgot  every- 
tliing  l)ut  her  companion.  In  that 
soft  hour  he  wou  her  to  name  the 
day. 

"  Josephine  goes  to  Paris  with  the 
doctor  in  about  three  weeks,"  mur- 
mured she. 

•'  And  vou  will  stay  behind,  all 
alone  ?  " 

"  Alone  ?  tiiat  shall  depend  on  you, 
monsieur !  " 

On  this  Edouard  caught  her  for  the 
first  time  in  his  arms. 

She  made  but  a  faint  resistance. 

"  Seal  me  that  promise,  sweet 
one  ! " 

"  No  !  no  !  —  there  !  " 

He  pressed  a  delicious  first  kiss 
upon  two  velvet  lips,  that  in  their  in- 
nocence scarcely  shunned  the  sweet 
attack. 

For  all  that,  the  bond  was  no  soon- 
er sealed  after  this  fashion,  than  the 
lady's  cheek  began  to  burn. 

She  had  been  taken  by  surprise. 

"Suppose  we  go  in  now?"  said 
she,  dryly. 

"Ah!  not  yet." 

"  It  is  late,  dear  Edouard." 

And   with  these   words  something 


228 


WIIITK  Lii:s. 


relumcil  to  Iior  mind  with  its  full 
fijivi', — somi'tliiii^  tlmt  Ivloiiiinl  Imd 
lu-tiially  inatle  lior  (brt;et  tor  more 
than  an  lumr.  How  should  she  ^ut 
rid  of  him  now  without  hurting  his 
fcelinirs  ' 

"  Edounrd,"  snid  she,  "  can  you  pet 
up  early  in  the  morniny;  ?  If  you  can, 
meet  me  here  to-morrow  hcfoi-e  any 
of  them  are  up  :  then  we  ean  talk 
witiiout  iiiterru])ti(>n." 

PMouard  was  delighted. 

"  Ei-;ht  o'clock  ?  " 

"  Sooner  if  you  like.  Mamma 
bade  mc  come  and  read  to  her  in  her 
room  to-ni;;ht.  .She  will  be  waiting 
for  me.     Is  it  not  tiresome  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is." 

"Well,  we  must  not  mind,  dear; 
in  three  weeks'  time  we  are  to  have 
too  much  of  one  another,  you  know, 
instead  of  too  little." 

"  Too  much  !  I  shall  never  have 
enough  of  you.  I  shall  hate  the  night 
which  will  rob  me  of  the  sight  of  you 
for  so  many  hours  in  the  twenty- 
four." 

"  If  you  can't  see  me,  pcrliaps  you 
may  hear  me  :  my  tongue  runs  by 
uight  as  well  as  by  day." 

"  Well  !  that  is  a  comfort,"  said 
Edouard,  gravely.  "  Yes,  little  quiz- 
zer,  I  would  rather  hear  you  scold 
than  an  angel  sing.  Judge,  then, 
what  music  it  is  when  you  say  you 
love  me  !  " 

"  I  love  you,  Edouard." 

Edouard  kissed  her  hand  warmly, 
and  then  looked  at  her  face. 

"  No  !  no  !  "  said  she,  laughing  and 
blushing.  "  Don't  Iw  rude.  Nc.\t 
time  we  meet." 

"  That  is  a  bargain.  But  I  won't 
go  till  you  say  you  love  me  again." 

"  Edouard,  don't  be  silly.  I  am 
ashamed  of  saying  the  same  thing  so 
often,  —  I  won't  say  it  any  more. 
What  is  the  use  T  You  know  I  love 
you.  There,  I  have  said  it :  how  stu- 
pid !  " 

"  Adieu,  then,  my  wife  that  is  to 
be." 

"  Adieu  !  dear  Edouard." 

"  My  hus —     Go  on,  —  my  luis — " 


"  Ban.l  ihat  shall  be." 

Then  they  walked  very  slowly  to- 
wards the  house,  and  once  more 
Laure  left  <[ui/.zing,  and  wa^  all  ttin- 
derness, 

"  Will  you  not  come  in,  and  bid 
them  'good  night '  ?  " 

"  No,  my  own.  I  am  in  heaven. 
Common  faces,  common  voices,  would 
bring  me  down  to  earth.  Let  nie 
be  alone  ! — your  sweet  words  ring- 
ing in  my  ear.  I  will  dilute  you 
with  nothint:  meaner  than  the  stars. 
See  how  bripht  they  shine  in  heaven  : 
but  not  so  bright  as  you  shine  in  my 
heart." 

"  Dear  Edouard,  you  flatter  mc, 
you  spoil  me.  Alas  !  why  am  I  not 
more  worthy  your  love  ?  ' 

"  More  worthy  !  How  can  that 
be?" 

Laure  sighed. 

"  IJut  I  will  atone  for  all.  I  will 
make  you  a  better  —  (here  she  substi- 
tuted a  full  stop  for  a  substantive)  — 
than  you  expect.     You  will  see  else." 

She  lingered  at  the  door  ;  a  proof 
that  if  Edouard,  at  that  particular 
moment,  had  seized  another  kiss, 
there  would  have  been  no  very  violent 
opposition  or  offence. 

But  he  was  not  so  impudent  as 
some.  He  had  been  told  to  wait  till 
next  meeting  for  that.  He  prayed 
Heaven  to  bless  her,  anil  so  the  affi- 
anced lovers  paried  for  the  night. 

It  was  about  nine  o'clock.  Ed- 
ouard, instead  of  returning  to  his  lodg- 
ings, started  down  towards  the  town, 
to  conclude  a  bargain  with  the  inn- 
keeper for  an  English  mare  he  was  in 
treaty  for.  He  wanted  her  for  to- 
morrow's work  ;  so  that  decided  him 
to  make  the  purchase.  In  purchases, 
as  in  other  matters,  a  feather  turns  the 
balanced  scale.  He  sauntered  leisure- 
ly down.  It  was  a  very  clear  night : 
the  full  moon  and  the  stars  shining 
silvery  and  vivid.  Kdouard's  heart 
swelled  with  joy.  He  was  loved,  after 
all,  deeply  loved  ;  and  in  three  short 
weeks  he  Wiis  actually  to  be  Laure's 
husband  :  her  lord  and  master.     How 


WHITE   LIES. 


229 


like  a  heavenly  dream  U  all  seemed,  — 
the  first  liopeless  courtship,  and  now 
the  wedding  fixed !  But  it  was  no 
dream  :  he  felt  her  soft  words  still 
murmur  music  at  his  heart,  and  the 
shadow  of  her  velvet  lips  slept  upon 
his  own. 

He  had  strolled  about  a  league 
when  he  heard  the  ring  of  a  horse's 
hoofs  coming  towards  him,  accompa- 
nied by  a  clanking  noise  :  it  came 
nearer  and  nearer,  till  it  reached  a  hill 
that  lay  a  little  ahead  of  Edouard  : 
then  the  sounds  ceased  :  the  cavalier 
was  walking  his  horse  up  the  hill. 

Presently,  as  if  they  had  started 
from  the  earth,  up  popped  between 
Edouard  and  the  sky  first  a  cocked 
hat  that  seemed,  in  that  light,  to  be 
cut  with  a  razor  out  of  flint,  then  the 
wearer,  phosphorescent  here  and  there  ; 
so  brightly  the  keen  moonlight  played 
on  his  epaulets  and  steel  scabbard. 

A  step  or  two  nearer,  and  Edouard 
gave  a  great  shout ;  it  was  Colonel 
Raynal. 

After  the  first  warm  greeting,  and 
questions  and  answers,  Raynal  told 
him  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  Rhine 
with  despatches. 

"  To  the  Rhine  1 " 

Raynal  laughed. 

"  I  am  allowed  six  days  to  get  there. 
I  made  a  calculation,  and  found  I 
could  give  Beaurepaire  half  a  day. 
I  shall  have  to  make  up  for  it  by  hard 
riding.  You  know  me.  Always  in 
a  hurry.  It  is  Bonaparte's  fault  this 
time.  lie  is  another  that  is  always  in 
a  hurry." 

"  Why,  colonel,"  said  Edouard, 
"  let  us  make  haste  then.  Mind  they 
go  early  to  rest  at  the  chateau." 

"  But  you  are  not  coming  my  way, 
youngster  ?  " 

"  Not  coming  your  way  ?  Yes, 
but  I  am.  Yours  is  a  face  I  don't 
see  every  day,  colonel ;  besides,  I 
would  not  miss  their  faces,  especially 
the  baroness's  and  Madame  Raynal's, 
at  sight  of  you  :  and,  besides  "  —  and 
the  young  gentleman  chuckled  to 
himself,  and  thought  — "  the  next 
time  we  meet :  well,  this  will  be  the 


next  time.  Mav  I  jump  up  be- 
hind ?  " 

Colonel  Raynal  nodded  assent; 
Edouard  took  a  run,  and  lighted  like 
a  monkey  on  the  horse's  crupper. 
He  pranced  and  kicked  at  this  unex- 
pected addition  ;  but,  the  spur  being 
promjjtly  applied  to  his  flanks,  he 
bounded  off  with  a  snort  that  betrayed 
more  astonishment  than  satisfaction, 
and  away  they  cantered  to  Beaure- 
paire without  drawing  rein. 

"There,"  said  Edouard,  "I  was 
afraid  they  would  be  gone  to  bed ; 
and  they  are.  The  very  house  seems 
asleep  —  fancy  —  at  half  past  ten." 

"  That  is  a  pity,"  said  Raynal, 
"for  this  chateau  is  the  strongiiold  of 
etiquette.  They  will  be  two  hours 
dressing  before  they  can  come  out  and 
shake  hands.  I  must  put  my  horse 
into  the  stable.  Go  you  and  give  the 
alarm." 

"  I  will,  colonel.  Stop,  first  let  me 
see  whether  none  of  tiiem  are  up,  af- 
ter all." 

And  Edouard  walked  round  the 
chateau,  and  soon  discovered  a  light 
at  one  window,  —  the  window  of  the 
tapestried  room.  Running  round  the 
other  way  he  came  slap  upon  anoth- 
er light :  this  one  was  nearer  the 
ground.  A  narrow  but  massive  door, 
which  he  had  always  seen,  not  only 
locked,  but  screwed  up,  was  wide  open  ; 
and  througli  the  aperture  the  light  of  a 
candle  streamed  out,  and  met  the 
moonlight  streaming  in. 

"  Hallo  !  "  cried  Edouard. 

He  stopped,  turned,  and  looked 
in. 

"  Hallo  !  "  he  cried  again,  much 
louder. 

A  young  woman  was  sleeping  with 
her  feet  in  the  silvery  moonlight,  and 
her  head  in  the  orange-colored  blaze 
of  a  flat  candle,  which  rested  on  the 
next  step  above  of  a  fine  stone  stair- 
case, whose  existence  was  now  first  re- 
vealed to  the  inquisitive  Edouard. 

Coming  plump  upon  all  this  so  un- 
expected Iv,  he  quite  started. 

"  Why.'Jaointha!" 

He  touched  her  on  the  shoulder  to 


230 


WIIITK   LIKS. 


wflkc  licr.  No.  .Iiicintlia  was  sleep- 
ing as  only  tiroil  doinvslii's  can  sleep. 
He  ini^'lit  have  taken  llie  caniUe  and 
burnt  licr  j^own  ott"  her  hack.  She 
had  found  a  stc|)  that  fitted  into  the 
small  of  her  hack,  and  another  that 
supported  her  head,  and  there  she  was 
fast  as  the  door. 

At  this  moment  llaynal's  voice  was 
►  heard  :  — 

"  Are  you  there  ?  " 

Kdouard  went  to  him. 

"  There  is  a  lij^ht  in  that  bed- 
room."' 

"  It  is  not  a  bedroom,  colonel :  it  is 
our  sitting-room  now.  We  shall  tind 
them  all  there,  or  at  least  the  youn^; 
ladies,  an<l  jierhaps  the  doctor.  The 
baroness  goes  to  bed  early.  Mean- 
time I  can  show  you  one  of  our  dni- 
matis  persona ,  and  an  important  one 
too.     She  rules  the  roast." 

He  took  him  mysteriously  and 
showed  him  Jacintlui. 

"  Hallo  !  "  cried  Raynal.  "  She 
can't  have  much  on  her  conscience." 

Moonlifrht  by  itself  seems  white, 
and  candleli}.'ht  by  itself  seems  yellow  ; 
but  when  the  two  come  into  close 
contrast  at  night,  candle  turns  a 
bloody  flame,  and  moonlight  a  bluish 
gleam. 

So  Jacintha,  with  her  shoes  in  this 
celestial  sheen,  an<l  her  face  in  that 
demoniacal  glare,  was  enough  to 
knock  the  gazer's  eye  out. 

"  Make  a  good  sentinel,  —  this 
one,"  said  Raynal,  —  "  an  outlying 
picket  for  instance,  on  rough  ground, 
in  front  of  the  enemy's  riflemen." 

"  Ha !  ha  !  colonel.  Let  us  sec 
where  this  staircase  leads.  I  have  an 
idea  it  will  prove  a  short  cut." 

"  Where  to  1  " 

"  To  the  saloon,  or  somewhere,  or 
else  to  some  of  Jacintha's  haunts. 
Serve  her  right  for  going  to  sleep  at 
the  mouth  of  her  den." 

"  Forward  then,  —  no,  lialt !  Sup- 
pose it  leads  to  the  bedrooms  !  mind 
this,  a  thundering  j)laee  for  ceremony. 
We  shall  get  drummed  out  of  the 
barracks  if  wc  don't  mind  our  eti- 
quette." 


While  ihoy  iiesitJited,  a  soft,  deli- 
cious harmijny  of  female  voices  sud- 
deidy  rose,  and  seemed  to  come  and 
run  round  the  walls.  The  men  looked 
at  one  another  in  astonishment :  for 
the  ert'ect  Wiis  magical.  Tiie  stair- 
cases being  encloseil  on  all  sides  with 
stone  walls  and  floored  with  stone, 
they  were  like  Hies  inside  a  violoncel- 
lo ;  the  voices  rang  above,  below,  and 
on  every  side  of  the  vibrating  walls. 
In  some  epochs  spirits  as  hardy  as 
llaynal's,  and  wits  as  quick  as  Kiv- 
iere's,  would  have  fled  then  and  there 
to  the  nearest  j)ulilic,  and  told  over 
cups  how  they  had  heard  the  dames 
of  Beaurepaire  long  since  dead  hold- 
ing their  revel,  and  the  conscious  old 
devil's  nest  of  a  chateau  quivering  to 
the  ghostly  strains. 

But  this  was  an  incredulous  age. 
They  listened,  and  listened,  and  de- 
cided the  sound  came  from  up  stairs. 

"  Let  us  mount,  and  surprise  these 
singing  witches,"  said  Edouard. 

"  Surprise  them  :  what  for  ?  It  is 
not  the  enemy,  —  for  once.  What  is 
tl:2  good  of  surprising  our  friends  '.  " 
Storming  parties  and  surprises  were 
no  novelty  and  therefore  no  treat  to 
liaynal. 

"  It  will  be  so  delightful  to  sec 
their  faces  at  first  sight  of  you.  O 
colonel,  for  my  sake  !  Don't  spoil  it 
all  by  going  tamely  in  at  the  front 
door,  after  coming  at  night  from 
Egypt  for  half  an  hour." 

"  Ilalf  a  day.  It  is  a  childish 
trick  !  Well,  show  a  light,  or  we  shall 
surprise  ourselves  with  a  broken  neck, 
going  over  ground  we  don't  know 
to  surprise  the  natives,  —  our  skir- 
mishers got  nicked  that  way  now  and 
then  in  Egypt." 

"  Yes,  colonel,  I  will  go  first  with 
Jacintha's  candle." 

Edouard  mounted  the  stairs  on  tip- 
toe. Raynal  followed.  The  solid 
stone  steps  did  not  prate.  The  men 
had  mounted  a  considerable  way  when 
puff'a  blast  of  wind  came  through  a 
hole,  and  out  went  Edouard's  candle. 
He  turned  shar])ly  round  to  Raynal. 
"  Pesle!  "  said    lie,  in  a  vicious  whiv 


WHITE  LIES. 


231 


per.  But  the  other  laid  his  hand  on 
his  shoulder  and  whispered,  "  Look  to 
the  front."  He  looked,  and,  his  own 
candle  being  out,  saw  a  glimmer  on 
ahead.  He  crept  towards  it.  It  was 
a  taper  shooting  a  feeble  light  across 
a  small  aperture.  They  caught  a 
glimpse  of  wliat  seemed  to  be  a  small 
apartment.  Yet  Edouard  recognized 
the  carpet  of  the  tapestried  room, 
which  was  a  very  large  room.  Creep- 
ing a  yard  nearer,  he  discovered  that 
it  was  the  tapestried  room,  and  that 
what  had  seemed  the  further  wall  was 
only  the  screen,  beliind  which  were 
lights,  and  Josephine  and  Laure  sing- 
ing a  duet. 

He  whispered  to  Raynal :  "  It  is 
the  tapestried  room." 

"  Is  it  a  stttiug-room  ?  "  whispered  Raynal. 
"  Yes  !  yes  !     Mind   aud   not  knock  your 
foot  against  the  wood." 

"  What,  ana  I  to  go  first  now  ?  " 

"Of  course." 

"  Why  ? " 

"  You  are  the  one  from  Egypt." 

"  Forward,  then." 

Kaynal  went  softly  up  and  put  his 
foot  quietly  through  the  aperture, 
which  he  now  saw  was  made  by  a  panel 
drawn  back  close  to  the  ground,  and 
stood  in  the  tapestried  chamber.  The 
carpet  was  thick  ;  the  ladies'  voices 
favored  the  stealthy  advance ;  the  floor 
of  the  old  house  was  like  a  rock  ;  and 
Edouard  put  his  face  through  the  ap- 
erture, glowing  all  over  with  anticipa- 
tion of  the  little  scream  of  joy  that 
would  welcome  his  friend  dropping  in 
so  nice  and  suddenly  from  Egypt. 

The  feeling  was  rendered  still 
more  piquant  by  a  sharp  curiosity 
that  had  been  growing  on  iiim  for 
some  minutes  past.  For  why  was 
this  passage  opened  to-night  ?  —  he 
had  never  seen  it  opened  before  ! 
And  why  was  Jacintha  lying  sentinel 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  ? 

But  this  was  not  all.  Now  that 
they  were  in  the  room  both  the  men 
became  conscious  of  another  sound 
besides  the  women's  voices,  —  a  very 
peculiar  sound.  It  also  came  from 
behind  the  screen.  They  both  heard 
it,  and  showed  by  the  puzzled  looks 


they  cast  at  one  another  that  neither 
could  make  out  what  on  earth  it  was. 
It  consisted  of  a  succession  of  little 
rustles,  followed  by  little  thumps  on 
the  floor. 

But  what  was  curious,  too,  this  nia- 
tle,  thump,  —  rustle,  thump,  —  rustle, 
thump,  —  fell  exactly  into  the  time  of 
the  music;  so  that,  clearly,  either  the 
rustle  thump  was  l)eing  played  to  the 
tune,  or  the  tune  sung  to  the  rustle 
thump. 

This  last  touch  of  mystery  inflamed 
Edouard's  impatience  beyond  bearing  : 
he  pointed  eagerly  and  merrily  to  the 
corner  of  the  screen.  Raynal  obeyed, 
and  stepped  very  slowly  and  cautious- 
ly towards  it. 

Kustle,  thump  !  rustle,  thump  !  rus- 
tle, thump !  with  the  rhythm  of  har- 
monious voices. 

Edouard  got  his  head  and  foot  into 
the  room  without  taking  his  eye  off 
Raynal. 

Rustic,  tluimp  !  rustle,  thump!  rus- 
tic, thump  ! 

Raynal  was  now  at  the  screen,  and 
quietly  put  his  head  round  it,  and  his 
hand  upon  it. 

Edouard  bursting  with  expectation. 

No  result.  AVhat  is  this?  Don't 
they  see  him  ?  Why  does  he  not 
speak  to  them  ?  He  seems  trans- 
fixed. 

Rustic,  thump  !  rustle,  thump  !  ac- 
companied now  for  a  few  notes  by  one 
voice  only,  Laure's. 

Suddenly  there  burst  a  shriek  from 
Josephine,  so  loud,  so  fearful,  that  it 
made  even  Raynal  stagger  back  a 
step,  the  screen  in  his  hand. 

Then  another  scream  of  terror  and 
anguish  from  Laure.  Then  a  fainter 
cry,  and  the  heavy,  helpless  fall  of  a 
human  body. 

Raynal  sprang  forward,  whirling 
the  screen  to  the  earth  in  terrible  agi- 
tation, and  Edouard  bounded  over  it 
as  it  fell  at  his  feet.  He  did  not  take 
a  second  step. 

The  scene  that  caught  his  eye  stu- 
pefied and  paralyzed  him  in  full 
career,  and  froze  him  to  the  spot  with 
amazement  and  strange  misgivings. 


232 


wuvn:  Lii:s. 


Lnurc  parted  from  IMoiiard,  and 
went  ill  at  llie  front  door :  but  tlie 
next  niDinenf  slie  oi>eni-d  it  soltiy  and 
watched  lur  lover  unseen. 

"  Dear  ICdouard  !  "  she  murmured  : 
and  then  slie  thouj^lit,  "  how  .sad  it  i.s 
that  1  must  deceive  liini,  even  lo- 
ni;;lit :  must  make  up  an  excuse  to 
(jet  liim  from  me,  when  we  were  so 
happy  toj^ether.  Ah  !  he  little  knows 
how  /  shall  welcome  our  weddin;,'- 
day.  When  once  I  can  sec  my  pour 
martyr  on  the  road  to  peace  and  con- 
tent under  the  f^ood  iloctor's  care. 
And  oil !  the  happiness  of  liavinfr  no 
more  secrets  from  him  I  love !  J)ear 
Edouard  !  when  once  we  arc  married, 
I  never,  never  will  liavea  secret  from 
you  again,  —  I  swear  it !  " 

As  a  comment  on  these  words  she 
now  stepped  cautiously  out,  and 
peered  in  every  direction. 

"St!— st!'"  she  whispered.  No 
answer  came  to  this  sipnal. 

Laure  returned  into  the  house  and 
bolted  the  door  inside.  She  went  up 
to  the  tajiestried  room,  and  found  the 
doctor  in  the  act  of  wishini^  Josephine 
good  night.  The  haroness,  fatigued 
a  little  hy  her  walk,  had  mounted  no 
higher  than  her  own  hedroom,  which 
was  on  the  first  floor  just  under  the 
tajx'stried  room.  Laure  followed  the 
doctor  out. 

"Dear  friend,  one  word.  Jose- 
phine talked  of  telling  Rayiial.  You 
have  not  encouraged  her  to  do  that  ?  " 

"  Certainlv  not,  while  he  is  in 
Egypt." 

"  Still  less  on  Jiis  return.  Doctor, 
you  don't  know  that  man.  Josephine 
does  not  know  him.  iTut  I  do.  lie 
would  kill  her  if  he  knew.  He  would 
kill  her  tliat  minute.  He  would  not 
wait  ;  he  would  not  listen  to  excuses  : 
he  is  a  man  of  iron.  Or,  if  he  sjiared 
her,  he  would  kill  Camillc :  and  that 
would  destroy  her  hy  the  cruellest  of 
all  deaths!  My  friend,  I  am  a  wick- 
ed, miserable  girl.  1  am  the  cause 
of  all  this  misery  !  " 

She  then  told  St.  Aubin  all  about 
the  anonymous  letter,  and  what  Kay- 
nal  had  said  to  her  in  eon.sequence. 


"  He  never  wouhl  have  married 
her  iiad  he  known  she  love<l  nnotlier. 
He  a.sked  me  was  it  so.  I  told  him  a 
falsehood.  At  least  I  c<piivocateil, 
and  to  ecpiivocate  with  one  so  loyid 
and  simple  wa.s  to  deceive  him.  I 
am  the  only  sinner :  that  sweet  an- 
gel is  the  only  sufferer.  Is  this  the 
justice  of  Heaven  1  Doctor,  my  re- 
morse is  great.  No  one  knows  what 
I  feel  when  I  look  at  my  work.  Kd- 
ouard  thinks  I  love  her  so  much  bet- 
ter than  1  do  him.  He  is  wrong:  it 
is  not  love  only,  it  is  pity  ;  it  is  re- 
morse for  the  sorrow  I  have  brought 
on  her,  and  the  wrong  I  have  done 
poor  Kaynal." 

The  high  spirited  girl  was  greatly 
agitated  ;  and  St.  Aubin,  though  he 
did  not  ae()uit  her  of  all  blame, 
soothed  her,  and  made  excuses  for 
her. 

"  We  must  not  always  judge  by  re- 
sults," said  he.  "  Things  turned  un- 
fortunately. You  did  for  the  best. 
I  forgive  you,  for  one.  That  is,  I 
will  forgive  you,  if  you  promise  not 
to  act  again  without  mv  advice." 

"  O,  never !  never  ! '' 

"And,  above  all,  no  imprudence 
about  that  child.  In  three  little 
weeks  they  will  be  together  without 
risk  of  discovery.  Well,  you  don't 
answer  me." 

J>ain-e's  blood  turaed  cold.  "  Dear 
friend,"  she  stammered,  "  I  cjuite 
agree  with  you." 

"  Troinise,  then." 

"  Not  to  let  Josephine  go  to  Fre- 
jus  ?  "  said  Laure,  hastily.  "  O  yes  ! 
I  jiromi.se." 

"  You  are  a  good  child,"  cried  St. 
Aubin.  "  You  have  a  will  of  your 
own.  But  you  can  submit  to  ago 
and  exj)cricncc." 

The  doctor  then  kis.scd  her,  and 
bade  her  farewell. 

"  I  leave  for  Paris  at  six  in  the  morn- 
ing. I  will  not  try  your  patience  or 
hers  imnecessarily.  I'erhaps  it  will 
not  be  three  weeks." 

The  moment  Laure  was  alone,  she 
sat  down  and  sighed  bitterly. 

"  There    is    no    end    to    it,"   she 


WHITE  LIES. 


233 


sobbed,  despairinfjly,  "  0  no !  I 
shall  never  get  clear  of  it.  It  is  like 
a  spider's  web ;  every  struggle  to  be 
free  but  multiplies  the  line  but  irre- 
sistible thread  that  seems  to  bind  me. 
And  to-night  I  thought  to  be  so  hap- 
py :  instead  of  that  he  has  left  me 
scarce  the  heart  to  do  what  I  have  to 
do." 

She  went  back  to  the  room,  opened 
a  window,  and  put  out  a  white  hand- 
kerchief :  then  closed  the  window 
down  on  it. 

Then  she  went  to  Josepliine's  bed- 
room door  :  it  opened  on  the  tapes- 
tried room. 

"  Josephine,"  she  cried,  "  don't  go 
to  bed  just  yet." 

"  No,  love.  What  arc  vou  do- 
ing?" 

"  0,  nothing  particular.  I  want  to 
t  ilk  to  you  presently." 

"  Shall  I  come  out  to  vou,  Lau- 
ro  ? " 

"  No,  stay  where  you  are." 

Laure  sit  down,  and  took  a  book. 

She  could  not  read  it. 

Then  she  took  some  work,  and  put 
it  down.  Then  she  went  to  a  win- 
dow ;  not  the  one  where  she  had  left 
the  handkerchief.  She  looked  out 
upon  the  night. 

Then  she  walked  restlessly  up  and 
down  the  room. 

Then  she  glided  into  the  corridor, 
and  passed  her  mother's  room  and 
the  doctor's,  and  listened  to  see  if  all 
was  quiet.  While  she  was  gone,  Jo- 
sephine opened  her  door ;  but,  not 
seeing  Laure  in  the  sitting-room,  re- 
tired again. 

Laure  returned  softly,  and  sat  down 
with  her  head  in  her  hand,  in  a  calm 
attitude  belied  by  her  glancing  eye  and 
the  quick  tapping  of  her  other  hand 
upon  the  table. 

Presently  she  raised  her  head  quick- 
ly ;  a  sound  had  reached  her  ear,  a 
sound  so  slight  that  none  but  a  high- 
strung  ear  could  have  caught  it.  It 
was  like  a  mouse  giving  a  single 
scratch  against  a  stone  wall. 

Laure  coughed  slightly. 

Oa  this  a  clearer  sound  was  heard, 


as  of  a  person  scratching  wood  with 
the  finger-nail.  Laure  darted  to  the 
side  of  the  room,  pressed  against  the 
wall,  and  at  the  same  time  put  her 
other  hand  against  the  rim  of  one  of 
the  panels  and  pushed  it  laterally  :  it 
yielded,  and  at  the  opening  stood  Ja- 
cintha  in  her  cloak  and  bonnet. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jacintlia,  "  under  my 
cloak  —  look  !  " 

"Ah! — you  found  the  things  on 
the  steps  ? "" 

"  Yes  !  I  nearly  tumbled  over  them. 
Have  vou  locked  that  door,  mademoi- 
selle?" 

"  No  !  but  I  will."  And  Laure 
glided  to  the  door  and  locked  it.  Then 
she  put  the  screen  up  between  Jose- 
phine's room  and  the  open  panel : 
then  she  and  Jacintha  were  wonderful- 
ly busy  on  the  other  side  the  screen, 
but  presently  Laure  said  :  — 

"  This  is  imprudent :  you  must  go 
down  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  wait 
till  I  call  you." 

Jacintha  pleaded  hard  against  this 
arrangement. 

"  What  chance  is  there  of  any  ono 
coming  tliere  ?  " 

"No  matter!  I  will  be  guarded  on 
every  side." 

"  Must  n't  I  stop  and  just  see  her 
happy  for  once  ?  " 

"  No !  my  poor  Jacintha,  yon  must 
hear  it  from  my  lips." 

Jacintha  retired  to  keep  watch  as 
she  was  bid.  Laure  went  to  Jose- 
phine's room,  and  threw  her  arms 
round  her  neck  and  kissed  her  vehe- 
mently. Josephine  returned  her  em- 
brace, then  held  her  out  at  arm's 
length  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Your  eyes  are  red  :  yet  your  lit- 
tle face  is  full  of  joy.  There, — j'ou 
smile." 

"  I  have  my  reasons." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it !  —  are  you  com- 
ing to  bed  ? " 

"  Not  yet.  I  invite  you  to  take  a 
little  walk  with  me  first.  Come  !  " 
and  she  led  the  way  slowly,  looking 
back  with  infinite  archness  and  tender- 
ness. 

"  You    almost   frighten  me,"  said 


234 


wiini:  LiKs. 


Jose|ihinc,  "  it  is  not  like  yon  to  he  nil 
joy  when  I  am  sail.  Tlirco  whole 
weeks  more." 

"'I'liat  is  it!  Why  arc  you  sad? 
Because  tiie  doctor  wtjuM  uot  let  y<ju 
po  to  Fr'Jus.  And  why  am  I  not  sad  '. 
Because  I  had  already  thcjuj^lit  of  a 
way  to  let  you  see  Edouard  without 
goiii;;  so  far." 

"  ( )  Laure  !    O  Laure  !  O  Laure  !  " 

"This  way,  —  come!"  and  she 
smiled  and  heckoticd  witii  her  finfjer  ; 
while  Josephine  followed  like  one  un- 
der a  spell,  her  bosom  hcavinp,  her 
eye  planein";  on  every  side,  hopinj; 
some  stranj^e  joy,  yet  scarce  daring  to 
ho]»e. 

Laure  drew  hack  the  screen,  and 
there  was  a  sweet  little  bei-cciu  that 
had  once  hcen  Josephine's  own,  and 
in  it,  sunk  deep  in  snow-white  lawn, 
was  a  sleeping  child,  that  lay  there 
looking  as  a  rose  might  look  could  it 
fall  upon  new-fallen  snow. 

At  sight  of  it  Josephine  uttered  a 
little  cry,  not  loud,  but  deep,  —  ay,  a 
cry  to  bring  tears  into  the  eye  of  the 
hearer,  and  she  stood  trembling  from 
head  to  foot,  her  hands  chisped,  and 
her  eye  fascinated  and  fixed  on  the 
cradle. 

"  My  child  under  this  roof!  What 
have  you  done  1  "  but  her  eye,  fasci- 
nated and  fixed,  never  left  the  cradle. 

"  I  saw  you  languishing,  dying,  for 
want  of  him." 

"  Oh  !  if  anybody  should  come  ?  " 
but  her  eye  never  stirred  an  inch  from 
the  cradle. 

"  No  !  no  !  no  !  the  door  is  locked. 
Jacintha  watches  below,  there  is  no 
dan —     Ah  !  at   last !    ah  !    poor  wo- 


man 


For,  as  Laure  was  speaking,  the 
young  mother  sprang  silently  ui)on 
iier  child.  You  would  have  thought 
she  was  going  to  kill  him !  her  head 
reared  itself  again  and  again  like  a 
crested  snake's,  and  again  and  again, 
and  again  and  again,  jilungcd  down 
u]Hjn  the  chilli,  and  she  kissed  his  lit- 
tle body  from  head  to  foot  with  soft 
violence,  and  murmured,  through  her 
starting  tears,  "  My  child !  my  dar- 


ling!  mv  nngd  !   oh   mv  poor   boy! 
my  chihil  my  child!  " 

I  will  ask  my  female  readers  of 
every  degree  to  tell  their  brothers  and 
husbands  all  the  young  noble  did. 
How  she  sat  on  the  floor,  and  had  hei 
child  on  her  bosom  ;  how  she  smiled 
over  it  through  her  tears ;  how  she 
purred  over  it ;  how  she,  the  stately 
one,  lis])ed  and  prattled  over  it ;  and 
how  life  came  pouring  into  her  heart 
from  it. 

Before  she  had  had  it  in  her  arms 
five  minutes,  her  pale  cheek  was  as  red 
as  a  rose,  and  her  eyes  brighter  than 
diamonds. 

"  Bless  you,  Laure  !  bless  you  ! 
bless  you  !  in  one  moment  you  have 
made  me  forget  all  I  ever  sutl'ered  in 
my  life. 

"  There  is  a  draught,"  cried  she, 
with  maternal  anxiety ;  "  close  the 
panel,  Laure." 

"  No,  dear  !  or  I  could  not  call  to 
Jacintha,  or  she  to  me;  but  I  will 
shift  the  screen  round  between  him 
and  the  draught.  There,  —  now  come 
to  his  aunt,  —  a  darling  !  " 

Then  Laure  sat  on  the  floor  too, 
and  Josephine  put  her  Iwy  on  aunt's 
lap,  and  took  a  distant  view  of  him. 
But  she  could  not  l)ear  so  vast  a  sep- 
aration long.  She  must  have  him  to 
her  bosom  again. 

"  lie  is  going  to  wake.  See  !  sec ! 
his  lovely  eyes  are  unclosing." 

"  But  he  must  not,  love,"  said  Lau- 
re :  "  there,  ])Ut  him  back  into  this 
cradle,  —  quick." 

This  could  not  be  done  so  adroitly 
but  what  young  mivster  did  wake,  and 
began  to  cry  toleral)ly  loud.  Laure 
rocked  the  cradle  hastily. 

"  Sing,  Josephine,"  said  she,  and 
she  began  an  old-fashioned  Breton 
chant  or  lullaby. 

Josephine  sang  with  her,  and,  sing- 
ing, watched  with  a  smile  her  i)oy  drop 
off  by  degrees  to  sleep  under  the  gen- 
tle motion  and  the  lulling  song.  They 
sang  and   rocked   till  the  lids   came 


WHITE   LTKS. 


235 


creeping  down,  and  hid  the  great  blue 
eyes;  but  still  they  sang  and  rocked, 
lulling  the  boy, — and  gladdening 
their  own  hearts  :  for  the  quaint  old 
Breton  ditty  was  tunable  as  the  lark 
that  carols  over  the  green  wheat  in 
April ;  and  the  words  so  simple  and 
motherly,  that  a  nation  had  taken 
them  to  heart.  Such  songs  bind  ages 
together,  and  make  the  lofty  and  the 
low  akin  by  the  great  ties  of  Music 
and  the  heart.  Many  a  Breton  peas- 
ant's bosom  in  the  olden  time  had 
gushed  over  her  sleeping  boy  as  the 
young  dame's  of  Beaurepaire  gushed 
now, —  in  this  quaint,  tuneful  lullaby. 

Now  as  they  kneeled  over  the  cra- 
dle, one  on  each  side,  and  rocked  it, 
and  sang  that  ancient  chant,  Jose- 
phine, who  was  opposite  the  screen, 
happening  to  raise  her  eyes,  saw  a 
strange  thing. 

There  was  the  face  of  a  man  set 
close  against  the  side  of  the  screen, 
and  peeping  and  peering  out  of  the 
gloom.  The  light  of  her  candle  fell 
full  on  this  face  ;  it  glared  at  her,  set 
jjale,  wonder-struck,  and  vivid,  in  the 
surrounding  gloom. 

Horror !     Her  husband's  fiice  ! 

At  first  she  was  stupefied,  and 
looked  at  it  with  soul  and  senses  be- 
numbed. Then  she  trembled,  and  put 
her  hand  to  her  eyes  ;  for  she  thought 
it  a  phantom  or  a  delusion  of  the 
mind.  No :  there  it  glared  still. 
Then  she  trembled  violently,  and  held 
out  her  left  hand,  the  fingers  working 
convulsively,  to  Laure,  who  was  still 
singing. 

But  almost  at  this  moment  the 
mouth  of  this  face  suddenly  opened 
in  a  long-drawn  breath.  At  this  Jose- 
phine uttered  a  violent  shriek,  and 
sprang  to  her  feet,  with  her  right  hand 
quivering  and  pointing  at  that  pale 
face  set  in  the  dark. 

Laure  started  up,  and,  wheeling  her 
head  round,  saw  Raynal's  gloomy  face 
looking  over  her  shoulder.  She  fell 
screaming  upon  her  knees,  and,  almost 
out  of  her  senses,  began  to  pray  wild- 
ly and  piteously  for  mercy. 


Josephine  uttered  one  more  cry, 
but  this  was  the  faint  cry  of  nature 
sinking  under  the  shock  of  terror. 
She  swooned  dead  away,  and  fell 
senseless  on  the  fioor  ere  Raynal  could 
debarrass  himself  of  the  screen,  and 
get  to  her. 

This,  then,  was  the  scene  that  met 
Edouard's  eyes. 

His  mistress  on  her  kness,  white  as 
a  ghost,  trembling  and  screaming, 
rather  than  crying  for  mercy.  And 
Raynal  standing  over  his  wife,  show- 
ing by  the  working  of  his  iron  fea- 
tures that  he  doubted  whether  she  was 
worthy  he  should  raise  her. 

One  would  have  thought  nothing 
could  add  to  the  terror  of  this  scene. 
Yet  it  was  added  to.  The  baroness 
rang  her  handbell  violently  in  the 
room  below.  She  had  heard  Jose- 
phine's scream  and  fall. 

"  Oh  !  she  too ! "  cried  Laure,  and 
she  grovelled  on  her  kness  to  Raynal, 
and,  seizing  his  knees,  implored  him 
to  show  some  pity. 

"  O  sir  !  kill  us  !  we  are  culpa- 
ble." 

Drlng !  dring !  dring  !  dring  !  dring  ! 
pealed  the  baroness's  bell. 

"  But  do  not  tell  our  mother.  0, 
if  you  are  a  man  !  do  not !  — do  not ! 
Show  us  some  pity  !  We  are  but  wo- 
men.    Mercy!  mercy!  mercy!" 

"  Speak  out  then  !  "  groaned  Ray- 
nal.    "  What  does  this  mean  ?  " 

"  W— w— what  ?  "  faltered  Laure. 

"  Why  has  my  wife  swooned  at 
sight  of  me  i  —  whose  is  this  child  ?  " 

"  Whose  ? "  stammered  Laure. 
Till  he  said  that,  she  never  thought 
there  could  be  a  doubt  whose  child. 

Dring  !  dring  !  dring  !  dring  !  dring  ! 

"  0  my  God  !  "  cried  the  poor  girl, 
and  her  eyes  glanced  every  way  like 
some  wild  creature  looking  for  a  hole, 
however  small,  to  escape  by. 

Edouard,  seeing  her  hesitation, 
came  down  on  her  other  side. 

"  Whose  is  the  child,  Laure  ?  "  said 
he,  sternly. 

"  You  too  !  why  were  we  born  1 
mercy  !  oh  !  let  me  go  to  my  sister !  " 

Dring  !  dring !  dring !  dring !  dring ! 


2'M 


WHITE  LIES. 


The  men  wore  excited  to  fury  J>y 
Lnure's  liesitatio;)  :  tlicy  each  seizc<l 
nil  arm,  aiiil  tore  her  sci-caiiiiiij^  with 
fear  at  their  violence  from  her  knees 
up  to  her  feet  Itetwccn  them  with  a 
sinirle   f^estiire. 

"  You  hurt  me  !  "  sniil  she,  bitterly, 
to  Edouard,  and  she  left  eryinjr,  and 
was  terrihiy  calm  and  sullen  all  in  a 
moment. 

"  Whose  is  the  child  ?  "  roared  Ed- 
ouard and  Kavnal  in  one  ragiiijj 
breath.     "  Whose  is  the  child  ?  " 

"  It  is  mine  !  " 

These  were  not  words,  they  were 
electric   .'^hocks. 

The  two  hands  that  priped  Laure's 
arms  were  ])araly7.e(I,  and  dropped  off 
them  ;  anil  there  was  silence. 

Then  the  thou<;ht  of  all  she  had 
done  with  those  three  words  began  to 
rise  and  grow  and  surge  over  her. 
She  stood,  her  eyes  turned  downwards 
yet  inwards,  and  dilating  with  horror. 

Silence ! 

Now  a  mist  came  over  her  eyes, 
and  in  it  she  saw  indistinctly  the  fig- 
ure of  Kaynal  darting  to  his  wife's 
side,  and  raising  her  head. 

She  dared  not  look  round  on  the 
other  side.  She  heard  feet  stagger  on 
the  floor.  She  heard  a  groan,  too ; 
but  nut  a  word. 

Horrible  silence ! 

AVith  nerves  strung  to  frenzy,  and 
trembling  acute  ears,  she  waiteil  for  a 
reproach,  a  curse  :  either  would  have 
been  some  little  relief.  But  no!  a  si- 
lence far  more  terrible. 

Then  a  step  wavered  across  the 
room.  Her  soul  was  in  her  ear.  She 
could  hear  and  feel  the  step  totter, 
and  it  shook  her  as  it  went.  All 
sounds  were  trebled  to  iicr.  Then  it 
struck  on  the  stone  step  of  the  stair- 
case, not  like  a  step,  but  a  loud,  crash- 
ing knell ;  another  step,  another,  and 
another  :  down  to  the  very  bottom. 
Each  slow  stej)  made  her  head  ring 
and  her  heart  freeze. 

At  last  she  heard  no  more.  Then 
a  scream  of  anguish  and  recall  rose 
to  her  ]i]).i.  She  fought  it  down  for 
Josephine  and  Haynal.    Edouard  was 


gone.  Slie  had  but  her  sister  now,  — • 
the  sister  she  loved  better  than  her- 
self; the  sister  to  save  whose  life  and 
honor  sho  had  this  moment  sacrificed 
her  own  and  all  a  woman  lives  for. 

She  turned  with  a  wild  cry  of  love 
and  pity  to  that  sister's  side  to  help 
her  ;  and,  when  she  kneeled  down  be- 
side her,  an  iron  arm  was  prom])tly 
thrust  out  between  the  Iteloved  one 
and  her. 

"  This  is  my  care,  madnme,"  said 
Kavnal,  coldly. 

There  was  no  mistaking  his  man- 
ner. The  stained  one  was  not  to 
touch  his  wife. 

She  lookc<l  at  him  in  piteous  amaze- 
ment at  his  ingratitude. 

"  It  is  well,"  said  she.  "  It  is  just. 
I  deserve  this  from  you." 

She  said  no  more,  but  droopeil  gen- 
tly down  beside  the  cradle,  and  hid 
her  forehead  in  the  clothes  beside  the 
child  that  liad  brought  all  this  woe, 
and  sobbed  bitterly. 

Honest  Kaynal  l>egan  to  be  sorry 
for  her  in  spite  of  himself.  But  there 
was  no  time  for  this.  Josephine 
stirred ;  and,  at  the  same  moment,  a 
violent  knocking  came  at  the  door  of 
the  apartment,  and  the  new  servant's 
voice,  crying :  — 

"  O  ladies !  for  Heaven's  sake, 
what  is  the  matter  ?  The  baroness 
heard  a  fall,  —  she  is  getting  uj), — 
she  will  be  here.  What  shall  I  tell 
her  1  —  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

Raynal  was  going  to  answer,  but 
Laure,  who  had  started  up  at  the 
knocking,  put  her  hand  in  a  moment 
before  his  mouth. 

She  ran  to  the  door. 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter;  tell 
mamma  I  am  coming  down  to  her 
directly."  She  flew  back  to  l{aynal 
in  an  excitement  little  short  of  frenzy. 
"  Help  me  carry  her  into  her  own 
room !  "  cried  she,  imperiously. 

Kaynal  obeyed  by  instinct ;  for  the 
fiery  girl  spoke  like  a  general  giving 
the  word  of  command  with  the  enemy 
in  front. 

"Now  put  it  out  of  sight,  —  taka 
this,  —  (piick,  quick !  " 


WHITE   LIES. 


237 


Raynal  went  to  the  cradle. 

"  Ah !  my  jKJor  yirl,"  said  lie,  as 
he  lifted  it  in  his  arms,  "  this  is  a  sorry 
liusiness  to  have  to  hide  your  own 
child  from  your  own  mother  !  " 

"  Colonel  Raynal ! "  said  Laure, 
"  do  not  insult  a  poor  despairing  girl ! 
—  c'est  Idche." 

"  I  am  silent,  young  woman  !  " 
said  Raynal,  sternly.  "  What  is  to  be 
done  ? " 

"  Take  it  down  the  steps,  and  give 
it  to  Jacintha.  Stay,  here  is  a  candle. 
I  go  to  tell  mamma  you  are  come : 
and.  Colonel  Raynal,  I  never  injured 
you :  and  if  you  tell  my  mother  you 
will  stab  her  to  the  heart  and  me,  and 
may  the  curse  of  cowards  light  oa 
you!  may  —  " 

"  Enough  !  "  cried  Raynal,  fiercely. 
"  Do  you  take  me  for  a  babbling  girl  ? 
I  love  }'our  mother  better  than  you 
do,  or  this  would  not  be  here.  I  shall 
not  bring  her  gray  hairs  down  with 
sorrow  to  the  grave.  I  shall  speak  of 
this  villany  to  but  one  person  ;  and  to 
him  I  shall  talk  with  this,  and  not 
with  the  idle  tongue  !  "  and  lie  tapped 
his  sword-hilt  with  a  sombre  look  of 
terrible  significance. 

He  carried  out  the  cradle.  The 
child  slept  sweetly  through  it  all. 

Laure  darted  into  Josephine's  room, 
took  the  key  from  the  inside  to  tlie 
outside,  locked  the  door,  put  the  key 
in  her  pocket  and  ran  down  to  her 
mother's  room :  her  knees  trembled 
under  her  as  she  went. 

Jacintha,  sleeping  tranquilly,  sud- 
denly felt  her  throat  griped,  and  heard 
a  loud  voice  ring  in  her  ear  :  then  she 
was  lifted  and  wrenched,  and  dropped. 
She  found  herself  lying  clear  of  the 
steps  in  the  moonlight :  her  head  was 
where  her  feet  had  been,  and  her  can- 
dle out. 

She  uttered  shriek  upon  shriek, 
and  was  too  frightened  to  get  up. 
She  thought  it  was  supernatural : 
some  old  De  Beaurepaiic  had  served 
her  thus  fur  sleeping  on  her  post.  A 
struggle  took  place  between  her  fidel- 
ity and   her  superstitious  fears.     Fi- 


delity conquered.  Quaking  in  every 
limb,  she  groped  up  the  staircase  for 
her  candle. 

It  was  gone. 

Then  a  still  more  sickening  fear 
came  over  her. 

What  if  this  was  no  spirit's  work, 
but  a  human  arm,  —  a  strong  one,  — 
some  man's  arm  ? 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  dart  up 
the  stairs,  and  make  sure  that  no 
calamity  had  befallen  through  her 
mistimed  drowsiness.  But  when  she 
came  to  try,  her  dread  of  the  super- 
natural revived.  She  could  not  ven- 
ture without  a  light  up  those  stairs, 
thronged  perhaps  with  angry  spirits. 
She  ran  to  the  kitchen.  She  found 
the  tinder-box,  and  with  trembling 
hands  struck  a  light.  She  came  back 
shading  it  with  her  li;inds,  and,  com- 
mitting her  soul  to  the  care  of  Heav- 
en, she  crept  quaking  up  the  stairs. 
Then  she  heard  voices  above,  and 
that  restored  her  more  ;  she  mounted 
more  steadily.  Presently  she  stopped  : 
for  a  heavy  step  was  coming  down. 
It  did  not  sound  like  a  woman's  step. 
It  came  farther  down  :  she  turned  to 
fly. 

"Jacintha!"  said  a  deep  voice, 
that  in  this  stone  cylinder  rang  like 
thunder  from  a  tomb. 

"  O  saints  and  angels,  save  me !  " 
yelled  Jacintha,  and  fell  on  her 
knees,  and  hid  her  head  for  security, 
and  down  went  her  candlestick  clat- 
tering on  the  stone. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool ! "  said  the  iron 
voice  over  her  head.  "  Get  up  and 
take  this." 

She  raised  her  head  by  slow  de- 
grees, shuddering. 

A  man  was  holding  out  a  cradle  to 
her :  the  candle  he  carried  lighted  up 
his  face. 

"  Colonel  Raynal !  " 

"  Well,  what  do  you  kneel  there 
for,  gaping  at  me  like  that?  Take 
this,  I  tell  you,  and  carry  it  out  of  the 
house  I " 

He  shoved  it  roughly  down  into 
her  hands,  then  turned  on  his  heel 
without  a  word. 


238 


MIllTE   LILS. 


Jiicintliii    coUajisoJ    on    tlif    stairs,  ' 
nnd  tlie  crndlc  sank   Iw-'siili'    her:  for 
all    the    [lower    was    driven    out    of  | 
her  l)c)il_v  :  sin-  eoiilii  hardly  support 
her  own  wciglit,  much  less  the  cra- 
dle. 

She  rocked  herself  and  proancd. 

"  O,  what  's  this  ?  —  U,  what  's 
this  ? " 

A  cold  perspiration  came  over  her 
whole  frame. 

"  ( ),  what  does  this  mean  ?  What 
lias  liap[>eiied  ?  " 

She  took  up  the  candle  tliat  was 
lying  burning  and  guttering  on  il)c 
stairs :  scraj)cd  up  the  grea-se  with 
the  snuffers,  and  tried  to  polish  it 
clean  with  a  hit  of  ])aj)cr  that  shook 
between  her  fingers.  (She  took  the 
child  out  of  the  cradle,  and  wrap])ed 
it  caR'fully  in  her  shawl :  tlien  went 
slowly  down  the  stairs,  and,  holding 
him  close  to  her  bosom,  with  a  fur- 
tive eye,  and  brain  confused,  and  a 
heart  like  lead,  stole  away  to  the  ten- 
antlcss  cottage  where  Madame  Jouve- 
nel  awaited  her. 

Laure  found  the  baroness  pale 
and  agitated.  '*  What  is  the  mat- 
ter ?  What  is  going  on  over  mv 
head  ? " 

"  Darling  mother,  something  has 
happened  that  will  rejoice  your  heart. 
Somebody  has  come  home  !  " 

"  .My  son  ?  O  no  !  impossible  ! 
We  cannot  be  so  happy." 

"  He  will  be  with  you  directly." 

The  old  lady  now  trcnit)led  with 
joyful  agitation. 

"  In  five  minutes  I  will  bring  him 
to  you.  Shall  you  be  dressed  ?  I 
will  ring  for  the  girl  to  help  you." 

"  But,  Laure,  the  scream,  and  that 
terrible  fall.  Ah !  where  is  Jose- 
phine ? " 

"  Can't  you  guess,  mamma  ?  0, 
the  fail  was  the  fall  of  the  screen, 
and  thev  stumbled  over  it  in  the 
dark." 

"They!  who?" 

"  Colonc'l  l{aynal  and  —  and  Ed- 
ouard.  I  will  tell  you,  mamma,  but 
don't  l>e  angry  or  even  mention  it. 
They  wanted   to  surprise  us.     They 


saw  a  light  burning,  and  they  crept 
on  tiptoe  up  to  the  tapestried  rocjin, 
where  Jo.se|)hine  and  I  were,  ami 
they  did  give  us  a  great  fright." 

"What  nuidness  !  "  cried  the  bar- 
oness, angrily  ;  "  and  in  Josephine's 
weak  state  !  Such  a  surprise  might 
have  ihiven  her  into  a  fit. 

"  Yes,  it  was  foolish ;  but  let  it 
pass,  mamma.  Doi't  sjK'ak  of  it. 
lie  is  sorry  about  it." 

Laure  slipped  out,  ordered  a  fire  in 
the  Sdlon,  and  not  in  the  tapestried 
room,  and  the  next  minute  was  at  her 
sister's  door.  There  she  found  Uay- 
nal  knocking  and  asking  Josephine 
how  she  was. 

"  Pray  leave  her  alone  a  moment," 
said  she.  "  I  will  bring  her  down  to 
you.  Mamma  is  waiting  for  you  in 
j  the  salon." 

Raynal  went  down.  Laure  un- 
locked the  l)Cdroom  door,  went  in, 
j  and  to  her  horror  found  Josephine 
lying  on  the  floor.  She  dashed  water 
in  her  face,  and  applied  every  remedy  ; 
and  at  last  she  came  back  to  life  and 
its  terrors. 

"  Save  me,  Laure  !  save  me,  —  he 
is  coming  to  kill  me,  —  I  heard  him 
at  the  door  " ;  and  she  clung,  trembling 
piteously,  to  Laure. 

Then  Laure,  seeing  her  terror,  was 
glad  at  the  suicidal  falsehood  slie  had 
told.  She  comforted  and  encouraged 
Josej)hine,  and  — deceived  her. 

"  All  is  well,  my  poor  coward,"  she 
cried  ;  "  your  fears  arc  all  imaginary : 
another  has  owned  the  child  ;  and  the 
story  is  believcil." 

"  Another  !  impossible  !  lie  would 
not  believe  it." 

"He  does  believe  it:  he  shall  be- 
lieve it." 

Laure  then,  feeling  by  no  means 
sure  that  Josephine,  terrified  as  she 
was,  would  consent  to  let  her  sister 
come  to  shame  to  screen  her,  told  her 
boldly  that  Jacintha  had  owned  her- 
self the  mother  of  the  child,  and  that 
Haynal's  only  feeling  towards  her  was 
pity,  and  regret  at  having  so  foolishly 
frightened  her,  weakened  as  she  wa.? 
by  illness.     I  told  him  vou  had  been 


WHITE  LIES. 


239 


ill,  dear.  But  liow  came  yoii  on  the 
ground  ?  " 

"Laurc,  I  had  come  to  myself;  I 
was  on  my  knees  praying.  He  tapped. 
I  heard  his  voice.  I  remember  no 
more.  I  must  have  fainted  again  di- 
rectly." 

Laure  had  hard  work  to  make  her 
believe  that  her  guilt,  as  she  called  it, 
was  not  known  ;  and  even  then  she 
could  not  prevail  on  her  to  come 
down  stairs,  until  she  said,  "  If  you 
don't,  he  will  come  to  you."  On  that 
Josephine  consented  eagerly,  and  with 
trembling  fingers  began  to  adjust  her 
hair  and  her  dress  for  the  interview. 

All  this  terrible  night  Laure  fought 
for  her  sister. 

She  took  her  down  stairs  to  the 
salon.  She  put  her  on  the  sofa.  She 
sat  by  her  and  pressed  her  hand  con- 
stantly to  give  her  courage.  She  told 
the  story  of  the  surprise  her  own  way, 
before  the  whole  party,  including  the 
doctor,  to  prevent  Raynal  from  being 
called  on  to  tell  it  his  way.  She 
laughed  at  Josephine's  absurdity,  but 
excused  it  on  account  of  her  feeble 
health.  In  short,  she  threw  more  and 
more  dust  in  all  their  eyes. 

But,  by  the  time  when  the  rising 
sun  came  faintly  in,  and  lighted  the 
haggard  party,  where  the  deceived 
were  happy,  the  deceivers  wretched, 
the  supernatural  strength  this  young 
girl  had  shown  was  almost  exhausted. 
She  felt  an  hysterical  impulse  to  scream 
and  weep:  each  minute  it  became 
more  and  more  ungovernable.  Then 
came  an  unexpected  turn.  Raynal, 
after  a  long  and  loving  talk  with  his 
mother,  as  he  called  her,  looked  at  his 
watch,  and,  in  a  characteristic  way, 
coolly  announced  his  immediate  de- 
parture, this  being  the  first  hint  he 
had  given  them  that  he  was  not  come 
back  for  good. 

The  baroness  was  thunderstruck. 

Laure  and  Josephine  pressed  one 
another's  hands,  and  liad  much  ado 
not  to  utter  a  loud  cry  of  joy. 

Raynal  explained  the  case.  Six 
days  were  allowed  him  to  carry  his 
despatches  to  the  Rhine. 


He  had  calculated  that  he  could  do 
it  in  four  days  from  Paris.  "  So  I 
stole  a  day  to  get  a  peep  at  you  and 
my  wife.  But  now  I  must  be  off: 
not  an  hour  to  lose.  Don't  fret, 
mother,  I  shall  soon  be  back  again,  if 
I  am  not  knocked  on  the  head." 

Raynal  took  a  jovial  leave  of  them 
all.  When  it  came  to  Laure's  turn 
he  drew  her  aside,  and  whispered  into 
her  ear  :  — 

"  Who  is  the  man  1 " 

She  started,  and  seemed  dura- 
founded.  "  No  one  you  know,"  she 
whispered. 

"  Tell  me,  or  I  ask  my  wife." 

"  She  has  promised  me  not  to  betray 
me ;  I  made  her  swear.  Spare  me 
now,  brother  ;  I  will  tell  you  all  when 
you  come  back." 

"  That  is  a  bargain,  now  hear  ma 
swear  ;  he  shall  marry  you  or  he  shall 
die  by  my  hand." 

He  confirmed  this  by  a  tremendous 
oath. 

Laure  shuddered,  but  she  said  noth- 
ing, only  she  tliought  to  herself,  "  I 
am  forewarned.  Never  shall  you 
know  who  is  the  father  of  that 
child." 

He  was  gone. 

2'lie  baroness.  "  What  had  he  to 
say  to  you,  Laurc  1  Your  poor  moth- 
er is  jealous !  " 

Laure.  "  He  was  only  telling  me 
wliat  to  do  to  keep  up  your  courage 
and  Josephine's  till  he  comes  back  for 
good." 

Baroness.  "  Ah  !  Heaven  grant  it 
may  be  soon  !  " 

This  was  the  last  lie  the  entangled 
one  had  to  tell  that  morning.  The 
next  minute  the  sisters,  exhausted  by 
their  terrible  struggle,  went  feebly, 
with  downcast  eyes,  along  the  corridor 
and  up  the  staircase  to  Josephine's 
room. 

They  went  hand  in  hand.  They 
sank  down,  dressed  as  they  were,  on 
Josephine's  bed,  and  clung  to  one  an- 
other and  trembled  together,  till  their 
exhausted  natures  sank  into  uneasy 
slnml)ers,  from  which  each  in  turn 
would  wake  ever  and  anon,   with  a 


240 


Win  IK    l.IKS. 


convulsive  start,  and  clasp  her  sister 
ti^'htLT  to  iicr  breast. 

Theirs  was  a  marvellous  love. 
Even  a  course  of  deceit  had  not  vet 
prevailed  to  separate  or  chill  tlieir  sis- 
ter bosoms.  IJut  even  in  this  deep 
and  wonderful  love  there  were  dc- 
piTcs  :  one  went  a  shade  deejier  tlian 
the  other  now  ;  ny,  since  last  ni^jlit. 
Which  ?  why,  she  who  iiad  sacriliced 
herself  for  the  other,  and  dared  not 
tell  her  of  it,  lest  tho  sacriliec  should 
be  refused. 

It  was  the  gray  of  the  morning,  and 
foggy,  when  llaynal,  after  taking 
leave,  went  to  the  stable  for  his  horse. 
At  the  stable  door,  he  came  upon  a 
man  sitting  doubled  u])  on  the  very 
stones  of  the  yard,  witli  his  head  on 
liis  knee.s.  This  ligurc  lifte<l  its  head, 
and  showed  him  the  face  of  Kdouard 
Kivierc,  white  and  ghastly  :  his  hair 
lank  with  the  mist,  his  teeth  chatter- 
ing with  cold  and  mi.scry.  The  poor 
wretch  had  walked  frantically  all 
night  round  and  round  the  cliatcau, 
waiting  till  he  should  come  out.  He 
told  him  so. 

"But  why  didn't  you  —  ?  Ah!  I 
SCO.  No  !  you  eould  not  go  into  the 
house  after  that.  Be  a  man  !  There 
is  but  one  thing  for  you  to  do.  Turn 
your  back  on  her,  and  forget  she  ever 
lived.     She  is  dead  to  you." 

"  There  is  something  to  be  done  be- 
sides that,"  said  Edouard,  gloomily. 

"What?" 

"  Vengeance." 

"  That  is  my  affair,  young  man. 
When  I  come  back  from  tlic  Rhine, 
slic  will  tell  me  who  her  seducer  is. 
She  has  promised." 

"She  will  never  tell  you:  she  is 
young  in  years,  but  old  in  treachery. 
Thank  Heaven,  we  don't  depend  on 
her.     I  know  the  villain." 

"Ah!  Tiien  tell  me  this  mo- 
ment!" 

"  It  is  that  scoundrel  Dujardin  !  " 

"  Dujardm  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that,  while  you  were  fight- 
ing for  France,  your  house  was  turned 
into  a  hospital  for  wounded  soldiers." 


"  All  the  Iwttor." 

"  That  this  Dujardin  was  housed 
by  you,  was  nursed  by  your  wife,  and 
all  the  family  :  and  in  reiurii  has  se- 
duced your  sister,  —  my  athanccd  !  " 

"  I  can't  iKilievc  it.  Camille  Du- 
jardin was  always  a  man  of  honor, 
and  a  good  soldier." 

"  C'olonel,  there  lias  Iwcn  no  man 
near  the  ])lace  but  this  Dujardin.  I 
tell  you  it  is  he.  Don't  make  me  tear 
my  bleeding  heart  out  :  must  I  tell 
you  how  often  I  caught  theni  togeth- 
er, how  I  susj)eeted,  and  how  she 
gulled  me,  blind  fool  that  I  was,  to 
iK'lieve  a  woman's  words  before  my 
own  eyes  ?  I  swear  to  you  he  is  the 
villain.  Tho  only  question  is,  which 
of  us  two  is  to  kill  him  ?  " 

"  Where  is  the  man  ?  " 

"  He  is  in  the  armv  f)f  the  Khinc." 

"Ah!  all  the  better." 

"  Covered  with  glory  and  honor. 
Curse  him  !  U,  curse  him  !  curse 
him!" 

"  I  am  in  luck.  I  am  going  to  the 
Rhine." 

"  I  know  it.  That  is  why  I  wait- 
ed here  all  through  this  night  of  mis- 
ery. Yes,  you  arc  in  luck.  But  you 
will  send  me  a  line  when  3'ou  have 
killed  him:  will  you  not?  Then  I 
shall  know  joy  again.  Should  he 
escape  you,  he  shall  not  escape  me." 

"  Young  man,"  said  Raynal.  calm- 
ly, "  this  rage  is  unmanly.  We  have 
riot  heard  his  side  of  the  story.  He 
is  a  good  soldier.  Perhaps  he  is  not 
all  to  blame  :  or  perhaps  passion  has 
betrayed  him  into  a  sin  that  his  con- 
science anil  honor  disapprove  :  if  so, 
he  must  not  die.  You  tliink  only 
of  your  wrong  :  it  is  natural.  But  I 
am  the  girl's  brother,  —  guardian  of 
her  honor  and  my  own.  His  life  is 
precious  as  gold.  I  shall  make  him 
marry  her." 

"What!  reward  him  for  his  vil- 
lany  !  "  cried  Edouard,  frantically. 

"I  don't  see  the  mighty  reward," 
replied  llaynal,  with  a  sneer. 

"  You  leave  one  thing  out  of  the 
calculation,  monsieur,"  said  Kdouard, 
trembling  with  anger,  —  "  that  I  will 


WHITE  LIES. 


241 


kill  your  brother-in-law  at  the  altar, 
before  her  eyes." 

"  You  leave  one  thing  out  of  the 
calculation,  —  that  you  will  lirst  have 
to  cross  swords  at  the  altar  with  me." 

"  So  be  it.  I  will  not  draw  on  my 
old  commandant.  I  could  not :  but 
be  sure  I  will  catch  him  and  her 
alone  some  day,  and  the  bride  shall 
be  a  widow  in  her  honeymoon." 

"As"  you  please,"  said  Ravnal, 
coolly.  ■"  That  is  all  fair.  I  'shall 
make  her  an  honest  wife  :  you  may 
make  her  an  honest  widow.  (This  is 
■what  they  call  love,  and  sneer  at  me 
for  keeping  clear  of  it.)  But  neither 
he  nor  you  shall  keep  7111/  siste?-  what 
she  is  now,  a  —  "  And  he  used  a 
word  out  of  the  camp. 

Edouard  winced  and  groaned. 

"  Oh  !  don't  call  her  by  sucli  a 
name !  There  is  some  mystery. 
She  loved  me  once.  There  must 
have  been  some  strange  seduction." 

"  Why  so  ?  "  cried  Raynal,  "  I 
never  saw  a  girl  that  could  take  her 
own  part  better  than  she  can.  She  is 
not  like  her  sister  at  all  in  character. 
Not  that  I  excuse  him.  It  was  a  dis- 
honorable act :  an  ungrateful  act  to 
my  wife  and  my  mother." 

"  And  to  3-ou." 

"  In  four  days  I  shall  stand  before 
him.  I  shall  not  go  into  a  pet  like 
you;  I  am  in  earnest.  I  shall  just 
say  to  him,  '  Dujardni,  I  know 
all ! '  Then,  if  he  is  guilty,  his  face 
will  show  it  directly.  Then  I  shall 
say,  '  Comrade,  you  must  marry  her 
whom  you  have  dishonored.'" 

"  He  will  not !  He  is  a  libertine, 
a  rascal." 

"  You  are  speaking  of  a  man  you 
don't  know.  He  will  marry  her,  and 
repair  the  wrong  he  has  done." 

"  Suppose  he  refuses  ?  " 

"  Why  should  he  refuse  ?  the  girl 
is  not  ugly  or  old,  and  if  she  has  done 
a  folly,  he  was  her  partner  in  it." 

"  Suppose  he  refuses  ?  " 

Eaynal  ground  his  teeth. 

"  Refuse  ?  if  he  does  I  '11  run  my 
sword  through  his  carcass,  then  and 
there.     And  the  girl  to  a  convent." 
11 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

The  French  army  lay  before  a  for- 
tified place  near  the  Rliine,  which  we 
will  call  rhilipsburg. 

This  army  knew  Bonaparte  by  re- 
port only :  it  was  commanded  by 
generals  of  the  old  school. 

Philipsburg  was  defended  on  three 
sides  by  the  nature  of  the  ground  : 
but  on  "the  side  that  faced  the  French 
line  of  march  there  was  only  a  zigzag 
wall,  pierced,  and  a  low  tower  or  two 
at  the  salient  angles. 

There  were  evidences  of  a  tardy  at- 
tempt to  improve  the  defences.  In 
particular  there  was  a  large  round 
bastion,  about  three  times  the  height 
of  the  wall :  the  masonry  was  new  : 
and  the  very  embrasures  were  not 
cut. 

Young  blood  was  for  assaulting  these 
equivocal  fortifications  at  the  etui  of  the 
day's  march  that  brought  the  French 
advanced  guard  in  sight  of  the  place ; 
but  tlie  old  generals  would  not  hear  of 
it.  The  soldiers'  lives  must  not  lie 
flung  away  assaulting  a  place  that 
could  be  reduced  in  twenty-one  days 
with  mathematical  certainty.  For  at 
this  epoch  a  siege  was  looked  on  as  a 
process  with  a  certain  result :  the  on- 
ly problem  was  in  how  many  days 
would  the  place  be  taken  ;  and  even 
this  they  used  to  settle  to  a  dny  or 
two  on  paper  by  aritiimetic  ;  so  nlany 
feet  of  wail,  and  so  many  guns  on  the 
one  side  :  so  many  guns,  so  many 
men,  and  such  and  such  a  soil  to  cut 
the  trenches  in  on  the  other,  —  result, 
two  figures  var"'ns'  from  fourteen  to 
forty.  These  two  gures  represented 
the  duration  oi  tne  siege. 

For  all  that,  siege  arithmetic,  right 
in  general,  has  always  been  terribly 
disturbed  by  one  little  incident  that 
occurs  now  and  then,  viz.  genius 
zViside,  This  is  one  of  the  sins  of 
genius  :  it  goes  and  puts  out  calcula- 
tions that  have  stood  the  brunt  of 
years.  Archimedes  and  Todle-ben 
were,  no  doubt,  clever  men  in  their 
way,  and  good  citizens,  yet  one  char- 
acteristic of  delicate  men's  minds  thev 


212 


UllIIE  LIES. 


lacked,  —  vonrration.  They  showeil 
an  utter  disresjieet  for  the  wisdom  of 
the  niieients,  (ler:inf;etl  the  ciilciila- 
tioiis  whicli  so  nuich  karnin;.'-  and  pa- 
tient thou^iit  liad  hallowed,  disturhed 
the  minds  of  white-haired  veterans, 
took  sieges  out  of  the  prasji  of  seienee, 
and  )(lunp;cd  them  hack  into  the  field 
of  the  wihlest  conjecture. 

Our  frenerals  then  sat  down  at  four- 
teen hundred  yards'  distance,  and 
)ilanned  the  trenches  artistically,  and 
directed  them  to  be  cut  at  artlul  an- 
gles, and  so  creep  nearer  and  nearer 
the  devoted  town.  Then  the  I'rus- 
sians,  whose  hearts  had  been  in  their 
shoes  at  first  si;:ht  of  the  French 
shakos,  plucked  up,  and  they  turned, 
not  tlic  ;;arrison  only,  hut  the  jiopula- 
tion  of  the  town,  into  en;;ineers  and 
masons.  Their  fortifications  grew  al- 
most as  fast  as  the  French  trenches. 

The  first  day  of  the  siege,  a  young 
hut  distinguished  brigadier  in  the 
French  army  rode  to  the  quarters  of 
General  Kaimbaut,  who  commanded 
his  division,  and  was  his  personal 
friend,  and  respectfully  hut  firmly 
entreated  the  general  to  rejjresent  to 
the  commander-in-chief  the  ])ropricty 
of  assaulting  that  new  bastion,  before 
it  should  become  dangerous. 

"  My  brigade  shall  carry  it  in  fif- 
teen minutes,  general." 

"  What,  cross  all  that  o[K?n  under 
fire  ?  one  half  your  brigade  would 
never  reach  the  bastion." 

"  The  olhcT  half  would  take  it, 
general." 

"  That  is  very  doubtful." 

"  And  the  next  day  you  would  have 
the  town." 

General  Raimbaut  refused  to  for- 
ward the  young  colonel's  proposal  to 
head-quarters. 

"  I  will  not  subject  you  to  tico  re- 
fusals in  one  matter,"  said  he,  kindly. 

The  young  colonel  lingered,  lie 
said,  respectfully  :  "  One  question, 
general  :  when  that  bastion  cuts  its 
teeth  will  it  be  any  easier  to  take  than 
now  ? " 

"  Certainly  :  it  will  always  be  easier 
to  take  it  from  the  sap  than  to  cross 


I  the  open  under  fire  to  it,  and  take  it. 

I  Come,  colonel,  to  your  trenches,  and 

'  if  your  friend  should  cut  its  teeth,  you 

shall   have  a   battery  in  your  attack 

that  will  set  its  teeth  on  edge,  —  hu  I 

ha  ! " 

The  young  colonel  did  not  echo  his 
chiefs  humor;  he  saluted  gravely, 
and  returned  to  the  trenches. 

The  ne.xt  morning,  three  fresh  tiers 
of  embrasures  griimed  one  above  an- 
other at  the  l)csieger8.  The  besieged 
had  been  up  all  night,  and  not  idle. 
In  half  these  apertures,  black  muz- 
zles showed  themselves. 

The  biu^tion  had  cut  its  front  teeth. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

TiiiRTKEXTii  day  of  the  siege. 

The  trenches  were  witlun  four  hun- 
dred yards  of  the  enemy's  guns,  and 
it  was  hot  work  in  them.  The  enemy 
had  tlirec  tiers  of  guns  in  the  round 
bastion,  and  on  the  top  they  hail  got 
a  long  48-pounder,  which  tlicy  worked 
with  a  swivel  joint,  or  somctliing,  and 
threw  a  great  roaring  shot  into  any 
part  of  the  French  lines. 

As  to  the  commander-in-chief  and 
his  gcneraN,  they  were  dotted  about  a 
long  way  in  the  rear,  and  no  shot 
came  as  iar  as  them  ;  but  in  the  trench- 
es the  men  began  now  to  fall  fast,  es- 
pecially on  the  left  attack,  which  faced 
the  round  ba-stion.  Our  young  col- 
onel had  got  his  heavy  battery,  and 
every  now  and  then  he  would  divert 
the  general  eftorts  of  the  bastion,  and 
com])el  it  to  concentrate  its  attenti(jn 
on  him  by  jKjunding  away  at  it  till  it 
was  all  in  sore  ])laces.  But  he  meant 
it  worse  mischief  than  that ;  still,  as 
heretofore,  regarding  it  as  the  key  to 
Philipsburg.  lie  had  got  a  large  force 
of  engineers  at  work  driving  a  mine 
towards  it :  and  to  this  he  trusted 
more  than  to  breaching  it,  for  the  big- 
ger holes  he  made  in  it  by  day  wero 
all  stopped  at  night  by  the  towns-peo' 
pie. 

This  colonel  was  not  a  favorite  in 


WHITE  LIES. 


2i3 


the  division  to  which  his  hrig:ac]e  he- 
long>^d.  lie  was  a  good  soldier,  but 
a  dull  companion.  He  was  also  ac- 
cused of  hauteur  and  of  an  unsoldierly 
reserve  with  his  brotlier  officers. 

Some  loose-tongucd  ones  even 
called  him  a  milksop,  because  he  was 
constantly  seen  conversing  with  the 
priest,  —  he  who  had  nothing  to  say  to 
an  honest  soldier. 

Others  said,  "  No,  hang  it !  he  is 
not  a  milksop  :  he  is  a  tried  soldier  : 
he  is  a  sulky  beggar  all  the  same." 
Those  under  his  immediate  command 
were  divided  in  opinion  about  him. 
There  was  something  about  him  they 
could  not  understand.  Why  was  his 
sallow  face  so  stern,  so  sad  ?  and  why 
with  all  that  was  his  voice  so  gentle  ? 
The  few  words  that  did  fall  from  his 
mouth  were  prized.  One  old  soldier 
used  to  say,  "  I  would  rather  have  a 
word  from  our  brigadier  than  from 
the  commander-in-chief."  Others 
thought  he  must  at  some  part  of  his 
career  have  pillaged  a  church,  taken 
the  altar-piece,  and  sold  it  to  a  picture- 
dealer  in  Paris,  or  whipped  the  ear- 
rings out  of  the  Madonna's  ear,  or 
admitted  the  female  enemy  to  quarter 
upon  ungenerous  conditions,  this  or 
some  such  crime  to  which  we  poor  sol- 
diers are  liable  :  and  now  was  com- 
mitting the  mistake  of  remording  him- 
self about  it.  "  Always  alongside  the 
chaplain,  you  sec !  " 

This  cold  and  silent  man  had  won 
the  heart  of  the  most  talkative  ser- 
geant in  theFrcnch  army.  SergeantLa 
Croix  protested  with  many  oaths  that 
all  the  best  generals  of  the  day  had 
commanded  him  in  turn,  and  that  his 
present  colonel  was  the  first  that  had 
succeeded  in  inspiring  him  with  un- 
limited confidence.  "  He  knows  every 
point  of  war,  —  this  one,"  said  La 
Croix  ;  "  I  heard  him  beg  and  pray 
for  leave  to  storm  this  thundering  bas- 
tion before  it  was  armed  :  but  no  !  the 
old  muffs  would  be  wiser  than  our 
colonel.  So  now  here  we  are  kept  at 
bay  by  a  place  that  Julius  Cresar  and 
Cannibal  would  n't  have  made  two 
bites  at  apiece  ;  no  more  would  I  if  I 


was  the  old  boy  out  there  behind  the 
hill."  In  such  terms  do  sergeants  de- 
note commanders-in-chief —  at  u  dis- 
tance. A  talkative  sergeant  has  more 
influence  with  the  men  than  the  Min- 
ister of  War  is  perhaps  aware  :  on  the 
whole,  the  22d  Brigade  would  have 
followed  its  gloomy  colonel  to  grim 
death  and  a  foot  farther. 

One  thing  gave  these  men  a  touch 
of  superstitious  reverence  for  their 
commander.  He  seemed  to  them  free 
from  physical  weakness.  He  never 
sut  down  to  dinner,  and  seemed  never 
to  sleep.  At  no  hour  of  the  day  or 
night  were  the  sentries  safe  from  his 
visits. 

Very  annoying.  But,  after  a  while, 
it  led  to  keen  watchfulness  :  the 
more  so  that  the  sad  and  gloomy  col- 
onel showed  by  his  manner  he  appreci- 
ated it.  Indeed,  one  night  he  even 
opened  his  marble  jaws,  and  told  Ser- 
geant La  Croix  that  a  watchful  sentry 
was  an  important  soldier,  not  to  his 
brigade  only,  but  to  the  whole  army. 
Judge  whether  the  maxim,  and  the 
implied  encomium,  did  not  circulate 
next  morning  with  additions. 

16th  day  of  the  siege.  The  round 
bastion  opened  fire  at  eight  o'clock, 
not  on  the  opposing  battery,  but  on 
the  right  of  the  French  attack.  Its 
advanced  position  enabled  a  portion 
of  its  guns  to  rake  these  trenches 
slant-wise  ;  and  depressing  its  guns 
it  made  the  round  shot  strike  the 
ground  first  and  ricochet  over. 

On  this  our  colonel  opened  on  them 
with  all  his  guns  :  one  of  these  ho 
served  himself.  Among  his  other 
warlike  accomplishments,  he  was  a 
wonderful  shot  with  a  cannon.  He 
sliowed  them  capital  practice  this 
morning  :  drove  two  embrasures  into 
one,  and  knocked  about  a  ton  of  ma- 
sonry oft"  the  parapet.  Tiien,  taking 
advantage  of  this,  he  served  two  of 
his  guns  with  grape,  and  swept  the 
enemy  oft'  the  top  of  the  bastion,  and 
kept  it  clear.  He  made  it  so  hot  they 
could  not  work  the  upper  guns. 
Then  thev  turned  the  otlier  two  tiers 


214 


WIIIIL    I.IKS. 


nil  upon  liim,  and  at  it  hoth  sides 
went,  tliii;;,  doiii:,  till  tin-  t,'iiii.s  witc 
too  liot  to  lie  WDiked.  So  then  Sit- 
pvunt  liii  Croix  ]K)p|)r(l  liis  Ik-iuI  up 
from  the  liattury,  am!  sliowiil  the  ene- 
my a  jrrcat  wliitc  plate.  'I'iiis  was 
meant  to  eonvey  to  theinnn  invitation 
to  (line  with  the  Frencli  army  :  tlic 
other  side  of  the  talilc,  of  course. 

To  the  credit  of  Prussian  intelli- 
pence  i)e  it  rceoniod,  tliat  this  paiito- 
miinic  hint  was  at  once  taken,  iind  both 
sides  went  to  dinner. 

The  fi^^htin;;  colonel,  however,  re- 
mained in  the  hattery,  and  kept  a 
detachment  of  his  jjunners  employed 
coolin;:  and  loadiii;,'  the  jruns  and 
rci)airin;;  tlie  touch-holes.  He  ordered 
his  two  cutlets  and  his  glass  of  water 
into  the  battery. 

Meantime  the  enemy  fired  a  single 
gun  at  long  intervals,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "  We  had  the  last  word."  Let 
trenches  be  cut  ever  so  artfully,  there 
will  be  a  little  space  exposed  here  and 
there  at  the  angles.  These  spaces  the 
men  are  ordered  to  avoid,  or  whip 
quickly  across  them  into  cover. 

^'ow  the  enemy  had  just  got  the 
range  of  one  of  these  jilaces  with  their 
solitary  gun,  and  had  already  dropped 
a  couple  of  shot  right  on  to  it.  A 
camp  f(jliower  with  a  tray,  two  cut- 
lets, and  a  glass  of  water  can\e  to  this 
open  sjiace  just  as  a  jiutt  of  white 
smoke  burst  from  the  bastion.  In- 
stead of  instantly  seeking  shelter  till 
the  shot  had  struck,  he  in  his  inexperi- 
ence thought  the  shot  must  have 
struck,  and  all  danger  be  over,  lie 
stayed  there  musing,  instead  of  pelt- 
ing under  cover:  the  shot  (I8lb.) 
struck  him  right  on  thelireast,  knocked 
him  into  spilkkens,  and  sent  the  mut- 
ton-chops flying. 

The  human  fragments  lay  quiet,  ten 
yards  oH'.  But  a  soldier  that  was  eat- 
ing his  dinner  kicked  it  over,  and  ! 
jumped  up  at  the  side  of  "  Death's 
Alley  "  (as  it  was  christened  ne.xt 
minute),  and  danced  and  yelled  with 
pain. 

"  Haw  !  haw  !  haw  !  "  roared  a  .sol- 
dier from  the  other  side  of  the  nllev. 


"  What  is  that  ?  "  cried  Sergcan* 
La  Croix.  "  What  do  you  lau;;h  at, 
I'livate  Cadel  '.  "  said  he.  sternly,  for, 
though  he  was  too  far  in  the  trench  to 
see,  be  had  heard  that  horrible  sound 
a  soldier  knows  from  every  other,  — 
the  "  thud  "  of  a  round  shot  striking 
man  or  horse. 

"  Sergeant,"  said  Cadel,  respect- 
fully, "  I  laugh  to  see  Private  Dard, 
that  got  the  wind  of  the  shot,  ilance 
and  sing,  when  the  man  that  got  tho 
shot  itself  does  not  say  a  word." 

"  The  wind  of  the  shot,  you  ras- 
cal !  "  roared  Private  Dard  :  "  look 
here !  "  and  he  showeil  the  blood  run- 
ning down  his  face. 

The  shot  had  actually  driven  ft 
splinter  of  [(one  out  of  the  sutler  into 
Dard's  tem))le. 

"  I  am  the  unhickiest  felbjw  in  the 
army,"  remonstrated  Dard ;  and  he 
stamped  in  a  circle. 

"  Seems  to  mc  you  are  only  tho 
second  unhickiest  this  time,"  said  a 
young  soldier  with  his  mouth  full ; 
and,  with  a  certain  dry  humor,  he 
pointed  vaguely  over  bis  shoulder  with 
the  fork  towards  the  corpse. 

The  trenches  laughed  and  assented. 

This  want  of  sympathy  and  justice 
irritated  Dard. 

"  You  cursed  fools  !  "  cried  he. 
"  He  is  gone  where  we  must  all  go, — 
without  any  trouble.  liut  look  at  mc. 
I  am  always  getting  barked.  Dogs 
of  Prussians  !  they  pick  me  out  among 
a  thousand.  I  shall  have  a  hca<lachc 
all  the  afternoon,  you  see  else." 

"  Some  of  our  heads  would  never 
have  ncheil  again  :  but  Dard  bad  a 
good  thick  skull." 

Dard  pulled  out  his  spillekcn  sav- 
agely. 

"  I  'II  wrap  it  up  in  paper  for  Jacin- 
tha,"  said  he.  "  Then  that  will  learn 
her  what  a  jioor  soldier  has  to  go 
through." 

Even  tliis  consolation  was  denied 
Private  Dard. 

Corporal  Coriolanus  Gand,  a  hit  of 
an  intidel  from  Lyons,  who  sometimes 
amused  himself  with  the  Breton's  su- 
perstition, told  him,  with  a  grave  face, 


WHITE   LIES. 


245 


that  the  splinter  belonf^cd,  not  to  him, 
but  to  the  sutler,  and,  though  so  small, 
was  doubtless  a  necessary  part  of  liis 
frame.  For  a  broken  link  is  a  broken 
chain. 

"  It  will  be  a  bone  of  contention 
between  you  two,"  said  he  ;  "  especial- 
ly at  midnight.  He  will  be  ahvaijs  com- 
ing buck  to  you  for  it." 

"There,'  take  it  away!"  said  the 
Breton,  hastily,  "  and  biiry  it  with  the 
poor  fellow." 

Sergeant  La  Croix  presented  him- 
self before  the  colonel  with  a  rueful 
face,  and  saluted  him  and  said  :  — 

"  Colonel,  your  dinner  has  been 
spilt,  —  a  shot  from  the  bastion." 

"  No  matter,"  said  tlie  colonel. 
"  Get  me  a  piece  of  bread  instead." 

Returning  from  this.  La  Croi.K  found 
Cadel  sitting  on  one  side  of  Death's 
Alley,  and  Dard  with  his  head  bound 
up  on  the  other.  They  had  got  a 
bottle  which  each  put  up  in  turn 
wherever  he  fancied  the  next  round 
shot  would  strike,  and  they  were  bet- 
ting their  afternoon  rations,  which 
would  get  the  Prussians  to  hit  the 
bottle  first.* 

La  Croix  pulled  their  cars  play- 
fully. 

"  Time  is  up  for  playing  marbles," 
said  he.  "  Mizzle,  and  play  at  round 
shot " ;  and  he  bundled  them  otf  into 
the  battery. 

It  was  an  hour  past  midnight :  a 
cloudy  niglit.  The  maon  was  up, 
but  seen  only  by  fitful  gleams.  A 
calm,  peaceful  silence  reigned. 

Dard  was  sentinel  in  the  battery. 

An  officer  going  his  rounds  found 
the  said  sentinel  flat  instead  of  verti- 
cal. He  stirred  him  with  his  scab- 
bard, and  up  jumped  Dard. 

"  It 's  all  right,  sergeant.  O  Lord  ! 
it's  the  colonel.  I  wasn't  asleep, 
colonel." 

"  I  have  not  accused  you.  But  you 
will  explain  what  you  were  doing." 

"  Colonel,"  said  Dard,  all  in  a  flut- 

*  So  cieep  an  impression  liad  the  above 
melancholy  incident  made  upon  these  two 
fioldters. 


tcr,  "  I  was  taking  a  squint  at  them, 
because  I  saw  something." 

"  What  t.  " 

"  Colonel,  the  beggars  are  building 
a  wall." 

"  AVhere  ?  " 

"  Between  us  and  tlic  bastion." 

"  Show  me." 

"  I  can't,  colonel ;  the  mooa  has 
gone  in  :  but  I  did  see  it." 

"  How  long  was  it  ?  " 

"  About  a  hundred  yards." 

"  How  high  ?  " 

"  Colonel,  it  was  ten  feet  high  if  it 
was  an  inch." 

"  Have  you  good  sight  ?  " 

"  La  !  colonel,  was  n't  I  a  bit  of  a 
poacher  liefore  I  took  to  the  bayonet !  " 

"  Good  !  Now  reflect.  If  you  per- 
sist, I  turn  out  the  brigade  on  your  in- 
formation." 

"  I  '11  stand  the  fire  of  a  corporal's 
guard  at  break  of  day,  if  I  make  a 
mistake  now,"  said  Dard. 

The  colonel  glided  away,  called  his 
captain  and  first  lieutenants,  and  said 
two  words  in  each  ear,  tliat  made 
them   spring  off  their  backs. 

Dard,  marching  to  and  fro,  mus- 
ket on  shoulder,  found  himself  sud- 
denly surrounded  by  grim,  silent,  but 
deadly  eager  soldiers,  that  came  pour- 
ing like  bees  into  the  open  .space  be- 
hind the  battery.  The  ofiicers  came 
round  the  colonel. 

"  Attend  to  two  things,"  said  he  to 
the  captains.  "  Don't  fire  till  they 
are  within  ten  yards  :  and  don't  fol- 
low tliem  unless  I  lead  you." 

The  men  were  then  told  off  by  com- 
panies, some  to  the  battery,  some  to 
the  trenches,  some  were  kept  on  each 
side  Death's  Alley,  ready  for  a  rush. 

They  were  not  all  of  them  placed, 
when  those  behind  the  parapet  saw 
something  deepen  the  gloom  of  night, 
some  fourscore  yards  to  the  front ;  it 
was  like  a  line  of  black  ink  suddenly 
drawn  upon  a  slieet  covered  with  In- 
dian ink. 

It  seemed  quite  stationary.  The 
novices  wondered  what  it  was. 

The  veterans  muttered,  "  Three 
deep." 


246 


M'lHTi;  iJi:s. 


Tliough  it  lofikcd  stationary,  it  p)t  ' 
Miu'kt'r  unit  l)l;icker.      'I'lii'  soldiers  of, 
tin-  'JJil  l5ri;,Milc  ;;ri|ic(l  llii-ir  imiski-t-i 
liarii,  and  set  their  tci'th,  iiml  tlie  sur- 
{^ants  had    much  udo  to  keep    them 
quiet. 

All  of  a  sudden,  a  loud  yell  on  the 
ri;;ht  of  the  hritrade,  two  or  three  sin- 
gle shots  IVo:n  the  treiiehes  in  that  di- 
reetion,  followed  hy  volley,  the  eries 
of  Nvoiindud  men,  and  the  fierce  hur- 
rahs of  an  attaekinj;  j)arty. 

(Jiir  colonel  knew  too  well  those 
gounds :  the  next  j)arallel  had  been 
surjirised,  and  the  Prussian  bayonet 
was  now  silently  at  work. 

Dis;^uise  on  the  ]>art  of  tlic  enemy 
was  no  loii;;er  jxjssible.  At  the  lirst 
shot,  a  ^^uttural  voice  was  heard  to 
give  a  word  of  command.  There  was 
a  shar])  rattle,  and  in  a  moment  the 
thick  black  line  was  tipped  with 
steel. 

A  roar  and  a  rush,  and  the  Prus- 
sian line  three  deep  came  furiously 
like  a  huge  steel-pointed  wave  at  the 
French  lines.  A  tremendous  wave  of 
lire  rushed  out  to  meet  that  wave  of 
steel ;  a  crash  of  two  hundred  mus- 
kets, and  all  was  still.  Then  you 
could  see  through  the  black  steel- 
ti])ped  line  in  a  hundred  fri^jhtful 
gaps,  and  the  ground  sparkled  with 
bayonets,  and  the  air  rang  with  the 
cries  of  the  wounded. 

A  tremendous  cheer  from  the  bri- 
gade, and  the  colonel  charged  nt  the 
heail  of  his  column,  out  bv  Death's 
Alley. 

The  broken  wall  was  melting  away 
into  the  night.  The  colonel  wlieeled 
his  men  to  the  right  :  one  companv, 
led  by  the  impetuous  young  Captain 
Jullien,  followed  the  flying  enemy. 

The  other  attack  had  been  oidy  too 
successful.  They  shot  the  sentries, 
and  bayoneted  many  of  the  soldiers 
in  their  tents  :  others  escaped  by  run- 
ning to  the  rear,  and  some  into  the 
next  parallel. 

Several,  half  dressed,  snatched  up 
their  muskets,  killed  one  Prussian, 
and  fell  riddled  like  sieves. 

A  gallant  officer  got  a  company  to- 


gether  into   the   place   of  arms  and 

fornie(l  in  line. 

Half  tiie  Prussian  force  went  at 
them,  the  rest  swept  the  trenches:  the 
French  company  delivered  a  deadly 
volley,  and  the  next  moment  clash  the 
two  forces  crossed  bayonets,  and  a 
silent  deadly  stabbing  match  was 
played  :  the  linal  result  of  which  was 
inevitable.  The  Prussians  were  five 
to  one.  The  gallant  officer  and  the 
poor  fellows  did  their  duty  so  stoutly, 
luid  no  thought  left  but  to  die  hard, 
when  suddenly  a  roaring  cheer  seemed 
to  come  from  the  rear  rank  of  the  en- 
emy. "France!  France!"  The 
24th  Brigade  was  seen  leajting  and 
swarming  over  the  trenches  in  the 
Prussian  rear.  The  I'russians  wa- 
vered. "  France  !  "  cried  the  little 
party,  that  were  being  over|)owered, 
and  they  charged  in  their  tuMi,  with 
such  fury  that  in  two  seconds  the  two 
French  corps  went  through  the  ene- 
my's centre  like  paper,  and  their  very 
bayonets  clashc<i  tcjgether,  in  more 
tiuin  one  Prussian  body. 

Broken  then  in  two  fragments,  the 
Prussian  corps  ceased  to  exist  as  a 
military  force.  The  men  fle<l,  each 
his  own  way,  hick  to  the  fort,  and 
many  Hung  away  their  muskets,  for 
French  soldiers  were  swarming  in 
from  all  (piartcrs.  At  this  moment, 
l)ang  !  bang !  bang !  from  the  bas- 
tion. 

"  They  are  firing  on  my  brigade," 
said  our  colonel.  "  Who  has  led  his 
conijiany  there  against  my  orders  ? 
Captain  Neville,  into  the  battery,  and 
fire  twenty  rounds  at  the  ba.stion. 
Aim  at  the  flashes  from  their  middle 
tier." 

"  Yes,  colonel." 

The  battery  opened  with  all  its 
guns  on  the  i)astion.  The  right  at- 
tack followed  suit.  The  town  an- 
swered, and  a  furious  cannonade 
roared  aiul  blazed  all  down  both 
lines  till  daybreak.  Hell  seemed 
broke  loose. 

Captain  Jullien  had  followed  the 
flying  foe,  but  could  not  come  up 
with  them  ;  and,  as  the  enemv  had 


WHITE  LIES. 


247 


prepared  for  every  contin<iency,  the 
fatal  bastion,  after  first  throwing  a 
rocket  or  two  to  discover  their  posi- 
tion, poured  showers  of  grape  into 
them,  killed  many,  and  would  have 
killed  more,  but  that  Captain  Neville 
and  his  gunners  happened  by  mere 
accident  to  dismount  one  gun,  and  to 
kill  a  couple  of  gunners  at  the  other. 
This  gave  the  remains  of  the  compa- 
ny time  to  disperse  and  run  back. 
When  the  men  were  mustered.  Cap- 
tain JuUien  and  twenty-five  of  his  com- 
pany did  not  answer  to  their  names. 
At  daybreak  they  were  visible  from 
the  trenches,  lying  all  by  themselves 
within  eighty  yards  of  the  bastion. 

A  flag  of  truce  from  the  fort. 

The  dead  removed  on  both  sides, 
and  buried.  Some  Prussian  officers 
strolled  into  the  French  lines.  Civili- 
ties and  cigars  exchanged :  "  Bon 
jour,"  "  Gooten  daeg,"  and  at  it  again, 
ding  dong  all  down  the  line,  blazing 
and  roaring. 

At  twelve  o'clock  they  had  got  a 
man  on  horseback,  on  top  of  a  hill, 
with  colored  flags  in  his  hand,  mak- 
ing signals. 

"  What  are  tliey  up  to  now  ?  "  in- 
quired Dard. 

"  You  will  see,"  said  La  Croix,  af- 
fecting mystery  :  he  knew  no  more 
th.an  the  other. 

Presently  off  went  Long  Tom  on 
the  top  of  the  bastion,  and  the  shot 
came  roaring  over  the  heads  of  the 
speakers. 

The  flags  were  changed,  and  off 
went  Long  Tom  again  at  an  elevation. 

Ten  seconds  had  scarcely  elapsed, 
when  a  tremendous  explosion  took 
place  on  the  French  right.  Long 
Tom  was  throwing  red-hot  shot :  one 
had  fallen  on  a  powder  wagon  and 
blown  it  to  pieces,  and  killed  two 
poor  fellows  and  a  horse,  and  turned 
an  artillery-man  at  some  distance  into 
a  nigger  parson ;  but  did  him  no 
great  harm  ;  only  took  him  three  days 
to  get  the  powder  out  of  his  clothes 
with  pipe  clay,  and  his  face  with  raw 
potato  peel. 


When  tlie  tumbril  exploded,  the 
Prussians  could  be  heard  to  cheer, 
and  they  turned  to  and  fired  every 
iron  spout  they  owned.  Long  Tom 
worked  all  day. 

They  got  him  into  a  corner  where 
the  guns  of  the  battery  could  not  hit 
them  or  him,  and  there  was  his  long 
muzzle  looking  towards  the  sky,  and 
sending  half  a  hundred-weight  of  iron 
up  into  the  clouds,  and  plunging 
down  a  mile  off"  into  the  French  lines. 

And,  at  every  shot,  the  man  on 
horseback  made  signals  to  let  the 
gunners  know  where  the  shot  fell. 

At  last,  about  four  in  the  afternoon 
they  threw  a  forty-eight-pound  shot 
slap  into  the  commander-in-chief's 
tent,  a  mile  and  a  half  behind  the 
trenches. 

Down  comes  a  glittering  aide-de 
camp  as  hard  as  he  can  gallop. 

"  Colonel  Dujardin,  what  are  ye 
about,  sir  1  Your  bastion  has  thrown 
a  round  shot  into  the  commander- 
in-chief's  tent." 

The  colonel  did  not  appear  so 
staggered  as  tlie  aide  -  de  -  camp  ex- 
pected. 

"  Ah  !  indeed  !  "  said  he,  quietly. 
"  I  observed  they  were  trying  dis- 
tances." 

"  Must  not  happen  again,  colonel. 
You  must  drive  them  from  the 
gun  !  " 

"  How,  monsieur  ?  " 

"  Why,  where  is  the  difficulty  ?  " 

"  If  you  will  do  me  the  honor  to 
step  into  the  battery,  I  will  show 
you,"  said  the  colonel. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  said  the  aide- 
de-camp,  stiffly. 

Colonel  Dujardin  took  him  to  the 
parapet,  and  began,  in  a  calm,  pains- 
taking way,  to  show  him  how  and 
why  none  of  his  guns  could  be 
brought  to  bear  upon  Long  Tom. 

In  the  middle  of  the  explanation, 
a  melodious  sound  was  heard  in  the 
air  above  them,  like  a  swarm  of  Brob- 
dingnag  bees. 

''What  is  that?"  inquired  the 
aide-de-camp. 

"  What  1     I  see  nothing." 


248 


wiirn;  i.ir.s. 


"  TliMt  Iiunimin^  noise." 

"  (),  that  ?  rrussiiin  hiillcts.  Ah! 
by  tlie  l)y,  it  is  a  coiii|iliiMciit  to  your 
uiiitorin,  monsieur ;  tliey  take  you 
for  sonic  one  of  importance.  Well, 
as  I  was  ol)scrving  —  " 

"  Your  explanation  is  suflieient, 
colonel  ;  let  us  get  out  of  this.  Ha  ! 
ha!  you  are  a  cool  liaml,  colonel,  I 
must  say.  But  your  hattory  is  a 
warm  i)lacc  enough  :  1  shall  rejjort  it 
so  at  headquarters." 

The  grim  colonel  relaxed. 

"  Captain,"  said  he,  politely,  "you 
shall  not  have  ridth'U  to  my  post  in 
vain.  Will  you  lend  me  your  horse 
for  ten  minutes  1  " 

"  Certainly  ;  and  I  will  inspect 
your  trenches  meantime." 

"  Do  so ;  and  be  so  good  as  to 
avoid  that  angle :  it  is  exposed,  and 
the  enemy  have  got  the  range  to  an 
inch." 

Colonel  Dujanlin  s]ii]]ie<l  into  liis 
quarters  :  olf  with  his  liall'-dress  jack- 
et and  his  dirty  hoots,  and  presently 
out  became  full  fig,  glittering  bright- 
er than  the  other,  with  one  French 
and  two  foreign  orders  shining  on  his 
breast,  mounted  tlie  aide-de-camp's 
horse  and  away  full  pelt. 

Admittetl,  after  some  little  delay, 
into  the  generalissimo's  tent,  Dujar- 
din  foutid  the  oi<l  gentleman  sur- 
rounded liy  his  staff,  and  wroth  :  nor 
was  the  danger  to  which  he  had  been 
exposed  his  sole  cause  of  ire. 

The  shot  had  burst  throuL'h  bis 
canvas,  struck  a  tal>le  on  which  was 
a  large  inkstand,  and  had  scpiirted 
the  whole  conients  over  the  despatch- 
es he  was  writing  for  Paris. 

Now,  this  old  gentleman  j)rided 
himself  upon  the  neatness  of  his  de- 
ppatches  :  a  blot  on  his  paper  darkened 
liis  soul. 

Colonel  Dujardin  expressed  his 
profound  regret. 

Com  Ilia  ndrr-in-rhifif.  "  I  have  a 
great  deal  of  writing  to  do,  as  you 
are  aware,  and  when  I  am  writing  I 
like  to  be  quiet." 

Colonel  Dujardin  assented  resj)ect- 
fuUy  to  the  justice  of  this.     He  then 


explained  at  full  length  why  he  could 
not  bring  a  gun  in  tlie  battery  to  si- 
lence Long  Tom,  and  quietly  asked 
to  be  j)ermitted  to  run  a  gun  out 
of  the  trenches,  and  take  a  shot  at 
the  offender. 

"  It  is  a  ])oint-b!ank  distance,  and 
I  have  a  new  gun,  with  which  a  man 
ought  to  i)e  able  to  hit  bis  own  ball 
at  three  buiKhcd  yards." 

The  coiiimunder  hesitated. 

"  I  cannot  have  the  men  cxpose<l." 

"  I  engage  not  to  lose  a  man,  ex- 
cept —  except  him  who  fires  the 
gun.     lie  must  take  his  chance." 

"  Well,  colonel,  it  must  be  done 
by  volunteers.  The  men  must  not 
l)e  ordi'icd  out  on  such  a  service  as 
that." 

Colonel  Dujardin  bowed  and  re- 
tired. 

"  Volunteers  to  go  out  of  the 
trenches  !  "  cried  Sergeant  La  Croix, 
in  a  stentorian  voice,  standing  erect 
as  a  poker,  and  swelling  with  impor- 
tance. 

There  were  fifty  offers  in  less  than 
as  many  seconds. 

"  Only  twelve  allowed  to  go,"  said 
the  sergeant ;  "  and  I  am  one,"  added 
he,  adroitly  inserting  himself. 

A  gun  was  taken  down,  ))laced  on 
a  cairiagc,  and  posted  near  Death's 
Alley,  but  out  of  the  line  of  fire. 

The  colonel  himself  superintended 
the  loading  of  this  gun ;  and,  to  the 
surprise  of  the  men,  had  the  shot 
weighed  first,  and  then  weighed  out 
the  powder  himself. 

He  then  waited  quietly  a  long 
time  till  the  bastion  ])itcbed  one  of  its 
periodical  shots  into  Death's  Alley  : 
but  no  sooner  had  the  shot  struck, 
and  sent  the  sand  flying  past  the  two 
I  lanes  of  curious  noses,  than  Colonel 
Dujardin  jumped  upon  the  gtm  and 
waver!  bis  cocked  hat :  nt  this  pre- 
concerted signal,  his  battery  opened 
fire  on  the  bastion,  anil  the  battery  to 
his  riirht  opened  on  the  wall  that 
fronted  them  ;  and  the  colonel  gave 
the  word  to  run  the  gun  out  of  the 
trenches.  The}-  ran  it  out  into  the 
cloud  of  sm^•ke  their  own  guns  were 


WHITE   LIES. 


249 


belching  forth,  unseen  hy  the  enemy  ; 
T)Ut  they  had  no  sooner  tuisted  it  into 
the  line  of  Lon;^  Tom,  than  the  smoke 
was  gone,  and  there  they  were,  a  fair 
mark. 

"  Back  into  the  trenches,  all  but 
one  !  "  roared  Dujardin. 

And  in  they  ran  like  rabbits. 

"  Quick !  the  elevation." 

Colonel  Dujardin  and  La  Croix 
raised  the  muzzle  to  the  mark,  —  hoo  ! 
hoo !  hoo!  ping!  ping!  ping!  came 
the  bullets  about  their  ears. 

"  Away  with  you  !  "  cried  the  colo- 
nel, taking  the  linstock  from  him. 

Then  Colonel  Dujardin,  fifteen 
yards  from  the  trenches,  in  full  blaz- 
ing uniform,  showed  two  armies  what 
one  intrepid  soldier  can  do.  He 
kneeled  down  and  adjusted  his  gun, 
just  as  he  would  have  done  in  a  prac- 
tising-ground.  He  had  a  pot  shot  to 
take,  and  a  pot  shot  he  would  take. 
He  ignored  three  hundred  muskets 
that  were  levelled  at  him.  He  looked 
along  his  gun,  adjusted  it,  and  read- 
justed to  a  hair's-breadth.  The  ene- 
my's bullets  pattered  over  it,  still  he 
adjusted  and  readjusted.  His  men 
were  groaning  and  tearing  their  hair 
inside  at  his  danger. 

At  last  it  was  levelled  to  his  mind, 
and  then  his  movements  were  as 
quick  as  they  had  hitherto  been  slow. 
In  a  moment  he  stood  erect  in  the 
half-fencing  attitude  of  a  gunner,  and 
his  linstock  at  the  touch-hole  :  a  huge 
tongue  of  flame,  a  volume  of  smoke, 
a  roar,  and  the  iron  thunderbolt  was 
on  its  way,  and  the  colonel  walked 
haughtily  but  rapidly  back  to  the 
trenches  :  for  in  all  this  no  bravado. 
He  was  there  to  make  a  shot ;  not  to 
throw  a  chance  of  life  away  watching 
the  eflTect. 

Ten  thousand  eyes  did  that  for  him. 

Both  French  and  Prussians  risked 
their  own  lives  craning  out  to  see 
what  a  colonel  in  full  uniform  was 
doing  under  tire  from  a  whole  line  of 
forts,  and  what  would  be  his  fate  ; 
but  when  he  lired  the  gun  their  curi- 
osity left  the  man  and  followed  the 
iron  thunderbolt. 

11* 


For  two  seconds  all  was  uncertain  = 
the  ball  was  travelling. 

Tom  gave  a  rear  like  a  wild  horse, 
his  protruding  muzzle  went  up  sky 
high,  then  was  seen  no  more,  and  a 
ring  of  old  iron  and  a  clatter  of  frag- 
ments was  heard  on  the  top  of  the 
bastion.  Long  Tom  was  dismount- 
ed. Oh  !  the  roar  of  laughter  and 
triumph  from  one  end  to  another  of 
the  trenches ;  and  the  clapping  of 
forty  thousand  hands,  that  went  on 
for  full  five  minutes  :  then  the  Prus- 
sians, either  through  a  burst  of  gen- 
erous praise  for  an  act  so  chivalrous 
and  so  brilliant,  or  because  they  would 
not  be  crowed  over,  clap])ed  their  ten 
thousand  hands  as  loudly,  and  thun- 
dering, heart-thrilling  salvo  of  ap- 
plause answered  salvo  on  both  sides 
that  terrible  arena. 

That  evening  a  courteous  and  flat- 
tering message  from  the  commander- 
in-chief  to  Colonel  Dujardin ;  and 
several  officers  came  to  his  quarters 
to  look  at  him  :  they  went  back  dis- 
appointed. The  cry  was,  "  What 
a  miserable,  melancholy  dog !  I  ex- 
pected to  see  a  fine  dashing  fellow." 

The  trenches  neared  the  town. 
Colonel  Dujardin's  mine  was  far  ad- 
vanced :  the  end  of  the  chamber  was 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  bastion.  Of 
late,  the  colonel  had  often  visited  this 
mine  in  person.  He  seemed  a  little 
uneasy  about  something  in  that  quar- 
ter :  but  no  one  knew  what :  he  was 
a  silent  man.  The  third  evening,  af- 
ter he  dismounted  Long  Tom,  he  re- 
ceived private  notice  that  an  order  was 
coming  down  from  the  commander-in- 
chief  to  a'isault  the  bastion.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  said 
nothing.  That  same  night  the  colo- 
nel and  one  of  his  lieutenants  stole  out 
of  the  trenches,  and  by  the  liel[)  of  a 
pitch-dark,  windy  night,  got  under  the 
bastion  unperceived,  and  crept  round 
it,  and  made  their  observations,  and 
got  safe  back.  About  noon  down 
came  General  Raimbaut. 

"  Well,  colonel,  you  are  to  have 
your  wav  at  last.     Your  bastion  is  to 


2oO 


wiim:  Lii:s. 


be  stormed  tliis  afternoon,  previous  to 
the  i^eiUTiil  assault.  Why,  liow  is 
this  !  you  tlun't  seem  cnchuuted  ?  " 

"  I  aui  not." 

"  Wliy,  it  was  you  who  pressed  for 
the  assault." 

"  At  the  rijflit  time,  general,  not  at 
the  wron^r.  In  five  days,  I  undertake 
to  iiluw  that  h;isti()n  into  tiie  air.  To 
assault  it  now  would  be  to  Wiiste  our 
men." 

General  Haiinbaut  tliouj^ht  this  ex- 
cess of  caution  a  great  piece  orjK'rver- 
sity  in  Achilles.  They  were  alone, 
and  he  said  a  little  jwevislily  :  — 

"  Is  not  this  to  blow  hot  and  cold 
on  the  same  thinj^  1  " 

"  No,  f^cneral,"  was  the  calm  reply. 
"  I  blew  hot  upon  timorous  counsels  ; 
I  blow  cold  on  rush  ones,  (jcneral, 
la-st  nif^ht  Lieutenant  Fleming  and  I 
were  under  that  bastion,  and  all  round 
it." 

"Ail!  my  jirudcnt  colonel,  I 
thought  I  should  not  talk  long  with- 
out your  coming  out  in  your  true 
light.  If  ever  a  man  secretly  enjoyed 
risking  his  life,  it  is  you." 

"  No,  general,"  said  Dujardin,  look- 
ing gloomily  down.  "  I  enjoy  neither 
that  nor  anything  else.  Live  or  die, 
it  is  all  one  to  me  ;  but  to  the  lives  of 
my  soldiers  I  am  not  inditferent,  and 
never  will  be  while  I  live.  JNIy  ajipar- 
ent  rashness  of  last  night  was  pure 
prudence." 

Raimbaut's  eye  twinkled  with  sup- 
pressed ironv. 

"No  doiibt!"  said  he,  — "no 
doubt ! " 

The  impassive  colonel  would  not 
notice  the  otlier's  irony :  he  went 
calmly  on. 

"  I  suspected  something  :  I  went  to 
confute  or  eontirm  that  suspicion.  I 
confirmed  it." 

Rat!  tat!  tat  !  tat!  tat !  tat!  tat! 
relieving  guard  in  the  mine. 

Colonel  Dujardin  interrupted  him- 
self. 

"  That  comes  apropos,"  said  he. 
"  I  expect  one  proof  more  from  that 
quarter  :  sergeant,  send  me  the  senti- 
nel thev  are  relieving." 


Sergeant  La  Croix  soon  cair.c'oack, 
iLs  jionipous  as  a  hen  with  one  chick, 
|)red()iriinating  wiili  a  grand  military 
air  over  a  droll  figure  that  chattered 
with  cold,  and  held  its  musket  in 
hands  clothed  in  great  mittens. 
Dard. 

La  Croix  marched  him  u|)  as  if  ho 
had  been  a  file :  halted  him  like  a 
file,  sung  out  to  him  lus  to  a  file,  stento- 
rian and  inaudible,  after  the  manner 
of  sergeants. 

"  I'rivate  No.  4." 

JJurJ.    "  P-pp- present !  " 

La  Croix.  "Ailvance  to  the  word  of 
command,  and  speak  to  the  colonel." 

'J"he  shivering  fi^rure  becuime  an  up- 
riy:ht  statue  directly,  and  carried  one 
of  his  mittens  to  his  forehead.  Then 
suddenly  recognizing  the  rank  of  the 
gray-haired  oflicer,  he  was  morally 
shaken,  and  remained  physically  erect 
and  stammered :  — 

"  C'olonel  !  —  general  !  —  colonel !  " 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  my  lad.  Rut 
look  at  the  general." 

"  Yes  !  general  1  colonel !  "  and  he 
levelled  his  eye  dead  at  the  general,  as 
he  would  a  bayonet  at  the  foe,  being 
so  commandeil. 

"  Now  answer  in  as  few  syllables 
as  you  can." 

"  Yes,  general,  —  colonel." 

Colonel  /Jiijanlin.  "  You  have  been 
on  guard  in  the  mine." 

"  Yes,  general." 

"  What  did  you  see  there  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  it  was  night  down 
there." 

"  What  did  you   feel?" 

"  Cold  !  I  —  was  —  in  —  water  — 
hugh !  " 

"  Did  vou  hear  nothing,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  Rum  !  bum  I  bum  !  " 

"  Are  you  sure  you  did  not  hear 
particles  of  earth  fall  at  the  end  of 
the  trench." 

"  I  did,  and  the  earth  trembled." 

"Ah?" 

"  Very  gently,  and  this  "  ("touching 
his  musket)  "  .sounded  of  its  own  ac- 
cord." 


WHITE  LIES. 


251 


"  Good  !  you  have  answered  well, 

go-" 

"  Sergeant,  I  did  not  miss  a  word," 
cried  Dard,  exulting.  He  thought 
he  had  jiassed  a  sort  of  college  exam- 
ination. The  sergeant  was  awe-struck 
and  disgusted  at  his  familiarity,  speak- 
ing to  him  before  the  great :  he  pushed 
Private  Dard  liastily  out  of  the  pres- 
ence, and  bundled  him  into  the 
trenches. 

"  Are  you   countermined   then  ? 
asked  General  Raimbaut. 

"  I  think  not,  general ;  but  the  en- 
emy's whole  position  is.  And,  gen- 
eral, we  found  the  bastion  had  been 
opened  in  the  rear,  and  lately  half  a 
dozen  broad  roads  cut  through  the 
masonry." 

"  To  let  in  reinforcements  ?  " 

"  Or  to  let  the  men  run  out  in  case 
of  an  assault.  I  have  seen  from  the 
first  an  able  hand  behind  that  part 
of  the  defences.  If  we  assault  that 
bastion,  they  will  pick  off  as  many 
of  us  as  they  can  with  their  muskets  : 
then  they  will  run  for  it,  and  fire  a 
train,  and  blow  it  and  us  into  the 
air." 

"  Colonel,  tills  is  serious.  Are  you 
prepared  to  lay  this  statement  be- 
fore the  commander-in-chief?" 

"  I  am,  and  I  do  so  through  you, 
the  general  of  my  division.  I  even 
beg  you  to  say,  as  from  me,  that 
the  assault  will  be  mere  suicide,  — 
bloody  and  useless." 

"  I  will  go  to  him  at  once.  For 
the  order  was  to  come  down  in  a 
couple  of  hours." 

General  Raimbaut  went  off  tohead- 
quai'ters  in  some  haste,  a  thoi-ough 
convert  to  Colonel  Dujardin's  opinion. 
The  colonel  ordered  a  strong  force  of 
engineers  into  the  mine,  and  went 
slowly  to  his  tent.  At  the  mouth 
of  it,  a  corporal,  who  was  also  his 
body  servant,  met  him,  saluted,  and 
asked  respectfully  if  there  were  any 
orders. 

"A  few  minutes'  repose,  Fran- 
cois, that  is  all.  Do  not  let  me 
be  disturbed  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour." 


"  Attention  !  "  cried  Francois. 
"  Colonel  wants   to  sleep." 

"  He  sliall  hear  the  gnats'  wings 
for  us,"  answered  an  honest  sol- 
dier. 

The  tent  was  sentinelled,  and  Du- 
jardin  was  alone  with  the  past. 

Then  had  tlie  fools,  that  took  (sis 
fools  always  do)  deep  sorrow  for  sul- 
lenncss,  seen  the  fiery  soldier  droop, 
and  his  sallow  face  fall  into  haggard 
lines,  and  his  martial  figure  sla-ink, 
and  heard  his  stout  heart  sigh  !  !  He 
took  a  letter  from  his  bosom  :  it  was 
almost  torn  to  pieces.  He  had  read 
it  a  thousand  times :  yet  he  read  it 
again.  A  part  of  the  sweet,  sad  words 
ran  thus  :  — 

"  \Vc  must  bow!  We  can  never  he 
happy  together  on  earth  :  let  its  make 
Heaven  cur  friend,  —  this  is  still  left 
us,  —  not  to  blush  for  our  love,  to  do  our 
duty,  and  to  die  !  " 

"  How  tender  but  how  firm," 
thought  Camille.  "  I  might  agitate, 
taunt,  grieve  her  I  love,  but  I  should 
not  shake  her.  No  !  God  and  the 
saints  to  my  aid !  They  saved  me 
from  a  crime  I  now  shudder  at !  and 
they  have  given  me  the  good  chap- 
lain :  he  praj-s  with  me,  he  weeps  for 
me.  His  prayers  still  my  beating 
heart.  I  wish  he  was  here  now ! 
Yes,  poor  suff^jring  angel !  I  read 
your  will  in  these  tender  but  bitter 
words,  —  you  prefer  duty  to  love: 
and  one  day  you  will  forget  me  :  not 
yet  awhile,  but  it  will  be  so.  It  wounds 
me  when  I  think  of  it :  but  I  must 
bow!  Your  will  is  sacred.  I  must 
rise  to  your  level,  with  God's  help  : 
not  drag  you  down  to  mine." 

Then  the  soldier  that  stood  between 
two  armies  in  a  hail  of  bullets,  and 
fired  a  master-shot,  took  a  little  book 
of  offices  in  one  hand,  —  the  chaplain 
had  given  it  him,  —  and  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  the  pious  words,  and  clung  like 
a  child  to  the  pious  words,  and  kissed 
his  lost  wife's  letter,  and  tried  so  hard 
to  be  like  her  he  loved,  —  patient, 
very  patient,  —  till  the  end  should 
come. 


202 


wniTi:  Mi-s. 


"  Qui  viref"  cried  tlie  sentinel,  out- 
side. 

"  France !  "  was  tlic  reply. 

The  same  voice  asked  the  sentinel : — 

"  Where  is  the  colonel  comnianding 
the  brigade  ? " 

The  sentinel  lowered  his  voice  :  — 

"  Asleej),  my  ollicer,"  said  he  ;  for 
the  new  -  comer  carried  two  epau- 
le(s. 

"  Wake  liim  !  "  said  he,  in  the  tone 
of  a  man  used  to  command  on  a  lai^'c 
scale. 

Dujanlin  heard,  and  did  not  choose 
sndi  a  man  should  think  he  was 
a.slcep  in  hioad  day.  He  canRMiuickly 
out  <>t"  the  tent  with  Josephine's  letter 
in  his  hand,  and,  in  the  very  act  of 
conveying  it  to  his  bosom,  he  found 
himself  face  to  face  witli  —  Colonel 

R.VY.VAL. 


CIIAl'TKR    XL. 

Did  you  ever  see  two  practised 
duellists  cross  raj)iers  i 

How  smooth  and  quiet  the  brif^ht 
blades  arc,  —  they  glide  into  contact! 
])olished  and  slippery  thouph  they 
are,  they  hold  each  other.  So  these 
two  men's  eyes  met,  and  fastened  : 
neither  spoke,  eacii  searched  the  other's 
face  keenly.  Haynai's  countenance, 
prepared  as  he  wiis  for  this  mcctiiifr, 
was  like  a  stern  statue's.  The  other's 
pale  face  flushed,  and  his  heart  raged 
and  sickened  at  sight  of  the  man  that, 
once  his  comrade  and  benefactor,  was 
now  possessor  of  the  wonuin  he  loved. 
But  liie  tigurcs  of  both  stood  alike 
haughty,  erect,  and  immovable,  face 
to  face. 

Colonel  Raynal  saluted  Colonel 
Dujardin.  Colonel  Dujardin  returned 
the  salute. 

"  You  thought  I  was  in  Egyjjt  !  !  " 
said  Uaynal,  with  grim  signilicance, 
that  caught  Dujardiii's  attention, 
though  he  did  not  know  quite  how  to 
interpret  it. 

He  answered  mechanically,  "  Yes." 

"  I  am  sent  here  by  (icncral  Bona- 
parte to  take  a  command." 


"  You  an-  welcome.  What  com- 
mand ?  " 

"  Yours." 

"  Mine  ?  "  cried  Dujardin,  his  fore- 
head flushing  with  mortilication  and 
anger.  "  What,  is  it  not  enough  that 
you  take  my  —  hem  !  " 

"  Come,  colonel,"  saitl  the  other, 
calmly,  "  do  not  be  unjust  to  an  ohl 
comrade.  I  take  your  demi-biigadc  : 
but  you  arc  promoted  to  Haimbaut's 
brigade." 

"  Uaynal,  I  was  wrong,"  said  the 
fiery  Camille,  lowering  his  eyes  for 
the  first  time  this  cami)aign. 

"  The  exchange  is  to  l>c  made 
tomorrow, "  continued  the  other,  in 
the  clear  tone  of  military  tuLsincss. 

"  ^^'as  it  then  to  announce  tome  my 
promotion  you  came  to  my  ([uar- 
ters  ? "  and  Camille  looked  with  a 
strange  mi.xturc  of  feelings  at  his  old 
comrade. 

"  That  was  the  first  thing." 

"  The  first  ?  " 

"  The  first,  being  duty,  you  know." 

"  What  1  have  you  anything  else  to 
sav  to  me  then  ?  " 

■"  I  h.-xve." 

"  Is  it  important  ?  for  my  own  du- 
ties will  soon  demand  me." 

"  It  is  so  important,  that,  command 
or  no  command,  I  should  have  come 
firthcr  than  the  Rhine  to  sav  it  to 
you." 

Let  a  man  be  as  bold  as  a  lion,  a 
certain  awe  still  waits  upon  doubt  and 
mystery  ;  and  some  of  this  vague  awe 
crept  over  Camille  Dujardin  at  Uay- 
nal's  mysterious  speech,  and  his  grave, 
quiet,  significant  manner. 

Had  he  discovered  something,  and 
what  ?  For  Josephine's  sake,  not  his 
own,  Camille  was  on  liis  guard  di- 
rectly. 

Raynal  looked  at  him  in  silence  a 
moment. 

"  What  ?  "  said  he,  with  ft  slight 
sneer,  "  ha.s  it  never  occurred  to  you 
that  I  must  have  a  serious  word  to  say 
to  you  ?  " 

"  Speak,  Colonel  Raynal !  I  am  at 
your  service." 

"First  let  me  put  you  a  question, 


AVHITE   LIES. 


253 


did  they  treat  you  well  at  my 
house  1  " 

"  At  !/our  house  ?  " 

"  At  the  Chateau  de  Beaurepaire  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  faltered  Camille. 

"  You  met,  I  trust,  all  the  kindness 
and  care  due  to  a  wounded  soldier, 
and  an  officer  of  merit  1  It  would 
annoy  me  greatly  if  I  thought  you 
were  not  treated  like  a  brother  in  my 
house." 

Coloiiel  Dujardin  writhed  inwardly 
at  this  view  of  matters.  He  could 
not  reply  in  few  words.  This  made 
him  hesitate. 

His  inquisitor  waited  ;  but,  I'eceiv- 
ing  no  reply,  went  on  :  — 

"  Well,  colonel,  have  you  shown  the 
sense  of  gratitude  we  had  a  right  to 
look  for  in  return  ?  In  a  word,  when 
you  left  Beaurepaire,  had  your  con- 
science nothing  to  reproach  you 
with  ?  " 

Dujardin  still  hesitated.  He  scarce- 
ly knew  what  to  think  or  what  to  say. 
lint  he  thought  to  himself,  "  Who 
has  told  him  f  does  he  know  all  1 " 

"  Colonel  Dujardin,  I  am  the  hus- 
band of  Josephine,  the  son  of  Ma- 
dame de  Beaurepaire,  and  the  brother 
of  Laure !  You  know  what  brings 
me  here.     Your  answer  1  " 

"  Colonel  Raynal,  between  men  of 
honor,  placed  as  you  and  I  are,  few 
words  should  pass  :  for  words  are  idle. 
Never  would  you  prove  to  me  that  I 
have  wronged  you  :  I  should  never 
convince  you  that  I  have  not.  Let  us 
therefore  close  this  painful  interview 
in  the  way  it  is  sure  to  close.  Colonel 
Raynal,  dispose  of  me  ;  I  am  at  your 
service  at  any  hour  and  place  you 
please." 

"And  pray  is  that  all  the  answer 
you  can  think  of?"  asked  Raynal, 
somewhat  scornfully. 

"  Why,  what  other  answer  can  I 
give  you  i  " 

"  A  more  sensible,  a  more  honest, 
and  a  less  boyish  one.  Who  doubts 
that  you  can  fight,  you  silly  fellow  i 
have  n't  I  seen  you  i  I  want  you  to 
show  me  a  much  higher  sort  of 
courage :    the    courage    to    repair  a 


wrong,  not  the  paltry  courage  to  de- 
fend one." 

"  I  really  do  not  understand  you,  sir. 
How  can  I  undo  what  is  done  ?  " 

"  Whv,  of  course  you  can't." 

"Weil,  then?" 

"  And  therefore  I  stand  here  ready 
to  forgive  all  that  is  past :  not  without 
a  struggle,  which  you  don't  seem  to 
appreciate." 

Camille  was  now  utterly  mystified. 

"  Upon  condition  that  you  consent 
to  heal  the  wound  you  have  made. 
If  you  refuse — hum!  but  you  will 
not  refuse." 

"  To  the  point,  sir.  What  do  you 
require  of  me  ?  " 

"  Only  a  little  common  honesty. 
This  is  the  case  :  you  have  seduced  a 
young  lady." 

"  Monsieur  !  "  cried  Dujardin,  an- 
grily. 

"'What  is  the  matter  ?  The  word 
is  not  so  bad  as  the  crime,  I  take  it. 
You  have  seduced  her,  and  under 
circumstances  —  But  we  won't  speak 
of  them,  because  I  mean  to  keep  cool. 
Well,  sir,  as  you  said  just  now,  it's 
no  use  crying  over  spilled  milk  ;  j'ou 
can't  unscduce  the  little  fool  :  you 
must  marry  her  !  " 

"  M — m — marry  her  ?  "  and  Du- 
jardin flushed  all  over,  and  his  heart 
beat,  and  he  stared  in  Raynal's  face. 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  again  1 
If  she  iuis  played  the  fool,  it  was  with 
you,  and  no  other  man  :  it  is  not  as 
if  she  was  depraved.  Come,  my  lad, 
a  little  generosity  !  Take  the  conse- 
quences of  your  own  act, — or  your 
share  of  it,  —  don't  throw  it  all  on  the 
poor  feeble  woman.  If  she  has  loved 
you  too  mucli,  you  are  the  man  of  all 
others  that  should  forgive  her.  Come, 
what  do  you  say  i  " 

"  Am  I  in  my  senses  ?  Is  it  you, 
Jean  Raynal,  who  stand  there,  and 
tell  me  to  marry  her  ? " 

"  I  do.  After  all,  is  it  such  a  mis- 
fortune to  marry  Laure  de  Beaure- 
paire ?  She  is  young,  she  is  pretty, 
she  has  good  qualities,  and  she  would 
have  walked  straight  to  the  end  of 
her  days,  but  for  you." 


254 


WllITK  i.ii:s. 


"  Laurc  dc  Ro:\iiiopnirc  ?  " 

"  Yis  !  Liuiio  (Ic  Ik'iiuropaire, — 
Lame  Diijanlin  lliat  ou^^lit  to  be,  and 
that  is  to  1)0,  it' you  |)lea.se." 

"One  word,  inoiisieur :  is  it  of 
Laurc  de  Beaurcpairc  \vc  have  been 
talkiii-;  all  this  time  '.  " 

Uaynal  nearly  lost  his  teini>cr  at 
this  (|uestioii,  and  the  eold,  coiilein)itii- 
ous  tone  with  which  it  was  jiut,  l)Ut 
lie  'iuliK'd  ihiwii  his  ire. 

"It  is,"  said  he. 

"  One  question  more.  Did  Laiire  de 
lieaurcpaire  tell  you  I  had  —  had — " 

"  Why,  as  to  that,  she  was  in  no 
condition  to  deny  she  had  fallen,  poor 
f^iil,  —  the  evidence  was  too  stronj;. 
She  did  not  reveal  her  seducer's  name  : 
but  I  had  not  far  to  ixo  for  that." 

These  words  of  Kaynal  made  Du- 
jardin  think  the  stranpe  proposal 
came  from  Josepliine.  She  was  de- 
ceiving; her  husband  then  in  some 
other  way,  and  not  for  love  of  him ; 
since  she  proposed  to  marry  him  to 
Laure.  lie  sickened  at  the  cold- 
blooded insult  to  his  love.  Then 
came  a  tit  of  jealous  rage. 

"  They  want  me  to  marry  Laurc 
dc  Beaurcpaire,  do  they  ?  I  decline," 
said  lie,  coMly  and  bitterly. 

"  You  decline  ?  this  passes  belief. 
Such  heartlessncss  as  this  is  not  writ- 
ten either  in  your  actions  or  your  face." 

"  I  refuse." 

"  And  I  insist,  in  Josephine's 
name  ! " 

"  Perdition  !  " 

"  In  the  name  of  tlic  whole  family  ! " 

"  I  refu.se." 

"  You  will  not  marry  her  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  honor,  never." 

"  Your  honor  !  you  have  none. 
You  will  not  many  her  ?  Would 
you  rather  die?  "  hissed  Uaynal. 

"  A  great  deal  rather,"  was  the 
cool  and  irritating  answer. 

"  Then  you  shall  die." 

"  Ah  !  '  Did  not  I  tell  you  we 
were  wasting  time,  monsieur  i  " 

"  You  did.  Let  us  waste  no  more. 
When  and  where  ?  " 

"  At  the  rear  of  the  commander-in- 
chiefs  tent,  when  you  like." 


"  This  aficrnoon,  then — at  five?  " 

"At  live." 

"  Seconds  !  " 

"What  for?" 

"  You  arc  right.  They  are  only  in 
the  way,  and  the  less  gossip  the  better. 
Good  by,  till  five  "  ;  and  the  two  salut- 
ed one  another  with  grim  ceremony  : 
and  Kaynal  turned  on  his  heel. 

('amille  stood  translixcrl :  a  fierce, 
guilty  joy  throbbed  in  his  heart,  ills 
rival  bad  (luarrdled  with  him,  had 
insulted  liim,  had  challenged  him. 
It  was  not  his  fault.  Tlic  siin  shone 
bright  now  upon  his  cold  despair. 
An  hour  ago  life  olfcrcd  nothing.  A 
few  hours  more,  ami  then  joy  iK-yond 
expression,  or  an  end  of  all.  Death 
or  Josepliine !  His  bcnefacior!  At 
that  thought  a  chill  of  misgiving 
struck  across  his  boiling  heart. 

Tramp  !  tramp  !  tramp  !  trfmp ! 
the  even  tread  of  soldiers  marching. 
Dnjardin  looked  up,  and  there  were 
several  officers  coming  along  the  edge 
of  the  trench,  escorted  by  a  corjwral's 
guard. 

He  took  a  step  or  two  to  meet  them. 
After  the  usual  salutes,  one  of  the 
three  colonels  delivered  a  large  jiaper, 
with  a  largo  seal,  to  Dujardin.  He 
read  it  out  to  his  captains  and  lieu- 
tenants, who  had  assembled  at  sight 
of  the  cocked  hats  and  full  uniforms. 

"  AUdcIc  by  the.  army  lo-morrow  ujton 
all  the  lines.  Attack  of'  t/ie  Bastion  St. 
Andre  this  eveni HI).  The  2'2d,  24lh,-(ind 
I2th  Briijades  will  furnish  the  contin- 
f/ents  :  the  operation  icill  be  conducted  by 
one  of  the  colonels  of  the  Second  Divis- 
ion, to  be  appointed  by  General  Jiaim- 
baut." 

"Aha!"  sounded  a  voice  like  a 
trombone  at  the  reader's  elbow.  "  I 
am  just  in  the  nick  of  time.  When, 
cohjnel,  when  ?  " 

"At  five  this  evening,"  Colonel 
Kavnal. 

"  At  five  ?  " 

"  At  five." 

"  Could  not  thev  choose  any  hour 
but  that  ?  "  said  llaynal,  under  his 
breath. 

"  Do  not  be  uneasy,"  said  Camille, 


WHITE  LIES. 


255 


under  his  brcatli.  lie  cxpliiincd  aloud, 
"  The  assault  will  not  take  place, 
gentlemen  :  the  bastion  is  mined." 

"  What  of  that  ?  half  of  them  arc 
mined.  We  will  take  our  engineers 
in  with  us." 

"  Such  an  assault  would  be  an  use- 
less massacre,"  continued  Dujardin, 
reddening  at  Raynal's  interruption. 
I  reconnoitred  the  bastion  last  ni^^ht, 
and  saw  their  preparations  for  blowing 
us  to  the  Devil ;  and  General  llaim- 
baut,  at  my  request,  is  even  now  pre- 
senting my  remarks  to  the  command- 
er-in-chief, and  enforcing  them.  There 
will  be  no  assault.  In  a  day  or  two 
we  shall  blow  the  bastion,  mines,  and 
all,  into  the  air." 

At  this  moment  Raynal  caught 
sigiit  of  a  gray-haired  officer  coming 
at  some  distance. 

"  There  is  General  Raimbaut,"  said 
he.  "  I  will  go  and  pay  my  respects 
to  him." 

General  Raimbaut  shook  his  hand 
warmly,  and  welcomed  him  to  the 
army.  They  were  old  and  warm 
friends. 

"  And  you  are  come  at  the  right 
time,"  said  he.  "  It  will  soon  be  as 
hot  here  as  in  Egypt." 

Raynal  laughed. 

"  All  the  better." 

"  Good  day,  messieurs.  Colonel 
Dujardin,  I  presented  your  observa- 
tions to  the  commander-in-chief.  He 
gave  them  due  attention.  But  they 
are  overruled  by  imperious  circum- 
stances ;  some  of  which  he  did  not 
reveal ;  they  remain  in  his  own  breast. 
However,  on  the  eve  of  a  general  at- 
tack, which  he  cannot  postpone,  that 
bastion  must  be  disarmed,  otherwise 
it  would  be  too  fiital  to  all  the  storm- 
ing parties.  It  is  a  painful  necessity. 
He  added,  'Tell  Colonel  Dujardin  I 
count  greatly  on  tlie  courage  and  dis- 
cipline of  his  brigade,  and  on  his  own 
wise  measures.' " 

Colonel  Dujardin  bowed.  Then  he 
whispered :  — 

"  Both  will  alike  be  wasted." 

The  other  colonels  waved  their  hats 
in  triumph  at  the  commander-in-chief's 


decision,  and  Raynal's  face  showed 
he  looked  on  Dujardin  as  a  sort  of 
spoil-sport,  happily  defeated. 

"  Well,  then,  gentlemen,"  said 
General  Raimbaut,  "  we  begin  by 
settling  the  proportion  to  be  furnished 
by  your  several  brigades.  Say  an 
equal  number  from  each.  The  sum 
total  shall  be  settled  by  Colonel  Du- 
jardin, who  has  so  long  and  ably  baf- 
fled the  bastion,  at  this  post." 

Colonel  Dujardin  bowed  stiffly,  and 
not  very  graciously.  In  his  heart 
he  despised  these  old  fogies, — com- 
pounds of  timidity  and  rashness. 

"  So,  how  many  men  in  all,  colo- 
nel ?  " 

"  The  fewer  the  better,"  replied  the 
other,  solemnly,  "  since  —  "  and  then 
discipline  tied  his  tongue. 

"  I  understand  you,"  said  the  old 
man.  "  Shall  we  say  eight  hundred 
men  ? " 

"  I  should  prefer  three  hundred. 
They  have  made  a  back  door  to  the 
bastion,  and  the  means  of  flight  at 
hand  will  put  flight  into  their  heads. 
They  will  pick  off  some  of  our  men  as 
we  go  at  them.  AVhen  the  rest  jump  in 
they  will  jump  out,  and  —  "  he  paused. 
"  Why,  he  knows  all  about  it  before 
it  comes,"  said  one  of  the  colonels, 
naively. 

"  Monsieur,  I  do.  I  see  the  whole 
operation  and  its  result  before  me,  as 
I  see  this  hand.  Three  hundred  men 
will  do." 

"  But,  general,"  objected  Raynal, 
"  you  are  not  beginning  at  the  begin- 
ning. The  first  thing  in  these  cases 
is  to  choose  the  officer  to  command 
the  storming  party." 

"  Yes,  Raynal,  unquestionably ; 
but  you  must  be  aware  that  is  a  pain- 
ful and  embarrassing  part  of  my  duty, 
especially  after  Colonel  Dujardin's 
remarks." 

"  Ah,  bah  ! "  cried  Raynal.  "  The 
colonel  is  prejudiced.  He  has  been 
difftring  a  thundering  long  mine  here  : 
and  now  you  arc  going  to  make  his 
child  useless.  We  none  of  us  like 
that.  But  when  he  gets  the  colors  in 
his  hand,  and  the  storming  column  at 


25G 


WniTF,   I.IKS. 


his  hack,  liis  nii^pivinps  will  nil  po  to 
the  wind,  and  tiie  enemy  after  them, 
unlc-ss  he  has  l)een  eommittin^  some 
crime  and  is  verv  mueh  ehaii;;ed  from 
what  I  knew  him  four  years  ajjo." 

"  Colonel  Haynal,"  said  one  of  the 
Other  colonels,  politely  hut  (irmly,  "  do 
not  assume  that  Colonel  Dujardin  is 
to  lead  the  <'olumn,  since  iIktc  are 
three  other  eiaimants.  (Jeneral  Uaiin- 
baut  is  to  seleet  from  us  four." 

"  Yes,  gentlemen,  and  in  a  service 
of  this  kind  I  would  feel  grateful  to 
you  all  if  you  would  relieve  mc  of 
that  painful  duty." 

"  licntlemen,"  said  Dujardin,  with 
an  impereeptihle  sneer,  "  the  general 
means  to  say  this  :  the  of)eration  is  so  ! 
glorious  and  so  sure  to  succeed,  that 
he  could  hardly  wiiiiout  partiality  as- 
sign the  command  to  either  of  us  four 
claimants.  Well, then,  let  us  cast  lots." 

The  proposal  was  received  by  ac- 
clamation. 

"  The  general  will  mark  a  black 
cross  on  one  lot,  and  he  who  draws  it 
wins  the  command." 

The  young  colonels  prepared  their 
lots  with  almost  boyish  eagerness. 
These  fiery  spirits  were  sick  to  death 
of  lying  and  skulking  in  the  trenches. 
They  Hung  their  lots  into  tiie  hat. 

After  them,  who  sliouM  approach 
the  hat,  lot  in  hand,  but  Kaynal. 

Dujardin  instantly  interfered,  and 
held  his  arm  as  he  was  in  the  act  of 
dropping  in  his  lot. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  said  Kay- 
nal,  sharply. 

"  This  is  our  affair,  Colonel  Ray- 
nal." 

"  What,  have  I  no  epaulets  ?  "  (an- 
grily. ) 

"  You  have  epaulets,  but  you  have 
no  soldiers  in  this  army." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  —  I  have 
yours." 

"•Not  till  to-morrow." 

"  Why,  you  wouM  not  take  such  a 
ftcttifogging  advantage  of  an  old  com- 
rade as  that  ?  " 

"Tell  him  the  day  ends  at  twelve 
o'clock,"  said  one  of  the  colonels,  in- 
terested by  this  strange  strife. 


"  Ah  !  "  cried  "Ritynal,  triumphant- 
ly ;  "  l)Ut  no,"  s.iid  he,  altering  his 
tone,  "  let  us  leave  tliit  sort  of  argu- 
ment to  lawyers.  1  have  come  a 
gooil  many  miles  to  fight  with  you, 
general,  and  now  you  must  decide  to 
]iay  mc  this  little  compliment  on  my 
arrival,  or  put  a  bitter  affront  on  mc, 
—  cluxjse  ?  " 

While  the  old  general  hesitated, 
Camille  replied  :  — 

"  Since  you  take  that  tone,  there 
can  be  but  one  answer.  You  arc  too 
great  a  credit  to  the  French  army  for 
even  an  app.^rent  slight  to  be  put  on 
you  here.  The  rule,  I  think,  is,  that 
one  of  the  privates  shall  hold  the  hat. 
Hallo!  Private  Dard,  come  here  — 
there  —  hold  this  hat." 

"  Yes,  colonel !  —  Lord,  here  is  my 
voung  mistress's  husband  !  " 
"  Silence  !  " 

And  they  began  to  draw,  and  in  the 
act  of  drawing  a  change  of  manner 
was  first  visible  in  these  gay  and  ar- 
dent spirits. 

"It  is   not  I,"  said   one,  throwing 
awav  his  lot. 
"Nor  I." 

"  It  is  I,"  said  Raynal,  quietly ; 
"  the  luck  is  mine." 

"  And  I  held  the  liat  for  you,  colo- 
nel," said  Dard,  with  foolish  triumph. 
"  Ah,  Kayrial,  my  dear  friend," 
said  General  Haiinb.uit,  sorrowfully, 
"  it  was  not  worth  while  to  come  from 
Egvpt  for  this." 

Jiai/nal.  "  At  what  o'clock  ?  " 
Dujardin.  "  At  five." 
linynal  (drawing  out  his  watch). 
"  Then  I  'vc  no  time  to  lose.  I  must 
inspect  the  detachments  I  am  to  com- 
mand. But  first  I  have  some  little 
arrangements  to  make.  Hitherto, 
general,  on  these  occasions,  I  was  a 
bachelor.     Now  I  am  married." 

"  Married  ]  I  am  sorry  for  it, 
Kaynal." 

"  A  droll  marriage,  my  old  friend  ; 
I  '11  tell  you  all  about  it,  —  if  ever  I 
have  the  time.  It  began  with  a  pur- 
chase, general,  and  ends  with — with  a 
bequest,  which  I  might  as  well  write 
now,  and  so  have  nothing  to  think  of 


WHITE   LIES. 


257 


but  diitv  afterwards.  AVhere  can  I 
write  7  " 

"  Colonel  Dujardin  will  lend  you 
his  tent,  I  am  sure." 

"  Certainly." 

"  And,  messieurs,"  said  Raynal, 
"  if  I  waste  time  you  need  not.  You 
can  pick  me  my  men  from  your  bri- 
gades. Give  me  a  strong  spice  of  old 
hands." 

The  colonels  withdrew  on  this,  and 
General  Kaimbaut  walked  sadly  and 
thoughtfully  towards  the  battery. 
Dujardin  and  Raynal  were  left  alone. 

"  This  postpones  our  affair,  sir." 

"Yes,  Raynal." 

"  Perhaps  forever.  Have  you  writ- 
ing materials  in  your  tent  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  on  the  tabic." 

"  You  are  quite  sure  the  bastion  is 
mined  1  " 

"  Unfortunately,  I  am  too  sure." 

Raynal  turned  and  went  to  the 
tent. 

Dujardin's  generosity  was  up  in 
arms.     He  came  eagerly  towards  him. 

"  Raynal,  for  Heaven's  sake,  resign 
this  command." 

"  Allow  me  to  write  to  my  wife, 
colonel,"  was  the  reply,  as  cold  as  ice. 

He  went  in  and  sat  down,  and  be- 
gan to  write. 

Dujardin  folded  his  arms  and 
watched  him.  What  he  wrote  ran 
thus : — 

"A  bastion  is  to  he  attacJced  at  Jive. 
I  command.  Colonel  Dujardin  pro- 
posed we  should  draw  lots,  and  I  lost, 
lite  service  is  honorable,  but  the  result 
may,  I  fear,  give  ijou  some  pain.  My  dear 
wife,  it  is  our  fate.  I  was  not  to  have 
lime  to  make  you  know,  and  perhaps  love 
me.     God  bless  you  !  " 

In  writing  these  simple  words,  Ray- 
nal's  hard  face  worked,  and  his  mus- 
tache quivered,  and  once  he  had  to 
clear  his  eye  with  his  hand  to  form 
the  letters.     He,  the  man  of  iron. 

He  who  stootl  there  with  folded 
arms  watching  him  saw  this,  and  it 
stirred  all  that  was  great  and  good 
in  that  grand,  though  passionate 
heart  of  his. 


"  Poor  Raynal ! "  thought  he, 
"  you  were  never  like  that  before  on 
going  into  action.  He  is  loath  to  die. 
Ay,  and  it  is  a  coward's  trick  to  let 
him  die.  I  shall  have  her  :  but  shall 
I  have  her  esteem  1  What  will  the 
army  say  ?  What  will  my  conscience 
say  ?  O,  I  feel  already  it  will  gnaw 
my  heart  to  death  ;  the  ghost  of  that 
brave  fellow  —  once  my  dear  friend, 
my  rival  now  by  no  fault  of  his  — 
will  rise  between  her  and  me,  and  re- 
proach me  with  my  bloody  inheritance. 
The  heart  never  deceives  —  I  feel  it 
now  whispering  in  my  ear:  skulking 
captain,  white-livered  soldier,  that 
stand  behind  a  parapet  while  a  better 
man  docs  your  work,  you  assassinate 
the  husband,  but  the  rival  conquers 
you.  There,  he  puts  his  hand  to  his 
eyes.  I  must  speak  to  him  !  I  ivill 
speak  to  him  !  " 

"  Colonel,"  said  a  low  voice,  and 
at  the  same  time  a  hand  was  laid  on 
his  shoulder. 

It  was  General  Raimbaut.  The 
general  looked  pale  and  distressed. 

"  Come  apart,  colonel,  for  Heav- 
en's sake !  One  word  while  he  is 
writing.  Ah !  colonel,  that  was  an 
unlucky  idea  of  yours." 

"  Of  mine,  general  !  " 

"  'T  was  vou  proposed  to  cast 
lots." 

"  Good  God  !  so  it  was." 

"  I  thought,  of  course,  it  was  to  be 
managed  so  that  Raynal  should  not 
be  the  one.  Between  ourselves,  what 
honorable  excuse  can  we  make  ?  " 

"  None,  general." 

"  Colonel,  the  whole  division  will 
be  disgraced,  and  forgive  me  if  I  s.sy 
a  large  portion  of  the  shame  will  fall 
on  yon." 

"  Help  me  to  avert  that  shame, 
then,"  cried  Camille,  eagerlv. 

"  Ah  !  that  I  will  :  but  how  ?  " 

"  Take  your  pencil  and  write,  — 
'  I  authorize  Colonel  Dujardin  to  save 
the  honor  of  the  colonels  of  the  sec- 
ond divison.'  " 

The  general  hesitated.  He  had 
never  seen  an  order  so  worded.  He 
hesitated  for  a  moment :  but  at  last 


258 


■wiini:  I.IKS. 


he  took  out  his  pencil  nnd  wrote  the 
ro<iuirfil  oi'iKt,  iil'u-r  liis  own  fusliion, 
i.  e.  ill  milk  and  water  :  — 

"  On  account  of  the  siiifjulnr  ahilitif 
and  ivurnrje  irith  which  Colonil  iJujnr- 
dill  h(is  conducled  thr  operations  at/dinst 
the  Bastion  .bV.  Aiidic,  a  discrclioimrij 
jMjwer  is  (firen  him  at  the  moment  of 
assault  to  cam/  into  effect  such  tneas- 
ures,  as,  without  interferimj  ivith  the 
commander-in-chiefs  order,  mai/  sustain 
his  own  credit,  and  that  of  the  other 
colonels  of  the  second  dirision. 
"  Kaimisait,  General  of  Division." 

Camillc  put  the  paper  into  his  bos- 
om. 

"  Now,  peneral,  you  may  leave  all 
to  me.  I  swear  to  you,  Kaynal  t^hall 
not  die! — shall  not  lead  this  as- 
sault." 

"  Your  hand,  colonel.  You  arc  an 
honor  to  the  French  armies.  How 
will  3'ou  do  it?  " 

"  Leave  it  to  me,  general,  it  shall 
be  done." 

"  I  feel  it  will,  my  noble  fellow  : 
but,  alas  !  I  fear  not  witiiout  risking 
some  valuable  life  or  otlicr,  most  like- 
ly your  own.     Tell  me." 

"  General,  I  refuse  !  " 

"  You  refuse  me,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  this  order  f^ivcs  me  a  dis- 
cretionary jMjwer.  I  will  hand  back 
the  order  at  your  command  ;  but 
modify  it  I  will  not.  Come,  mon- 
sieur, you  veteran  generals  have  been 
unjust  to  me,  and  listcnetl  to  me  too 
little  all  through  this  sie}j;e,  but  at 
last  you  have  honored  me.  This 
order  is  the  greatest  honor  that  was 
ever  done  me  since  I  wore  a  sword." 

"  My  ]^ooT  cohmel !  " 

"Let  me  wear  it  intact,  and  carry 
it  to  my  grave!  " 

'•Say  no  more!  One  word,  is 
there  anything  on  earth  I  can  do  for 
you.  my  brave  soldier  1  " 

"  Yes,  general.  Be  so  kind  as  to 
retire  to  your  quarters  ;  there  are  rea- 
sons why  you  ought  not  to  be  near 
this  post  in  half  an  hour." 

"  I  go.     Is  there  nothing  else  ?  " 


"  Well,  general,  a«k  the  good  pricet 
Ambrose  to  pray  fur  all  ihose.  who 
shall  die  doiii;;  their  duty  to  their 
country  this  alk'rnoon." 

They  parted.  General  Raimbaut 
looked  back  more  than  once  at  the 
firm,  intrepid  (i;;iire  that  stood  there, 
with  folded  arms,  unllinchin^',  on  the 
edge  of  the  t;ravc.  IJut  he  never  took 
his  eye  otf  Kaynal.  The  next  minute 
Haynal's  sad  letter  was  finished,  and 
he  walked  out  of  the  tent,  and  con- 
fronted the  man  he  had  challenged 
to  single  combat. 

I  have  mentioned  elsewhere  that 
Colonel  Dujardin  had  eyes  strange- 
ly com])i>un(ied  of  battle  ami  love,  of 
the  dove  and  the  hawk.  And  these, 
softened  by  a  noble  act  he  meditated, 
now  rested  on  Haynal  with  a  strange 
expression  of  warmth  and  goodness. 
This  strange  gaze  struck  IJaynal,  so 
far  at  least  as  this  :  he  saw  no  hostile 
eye.  He  was  glad  of  that,  for  his  own 
heart  was  calmed  by  the  solemn  pros- 
pect l)efore  him. 

"  We,  too,  have  a  little  account  to 
settle  before  I  order  out  the  men," 
said  he,  calmly,  "  and  I  can't  give  you 
long  credit.      I  am  pressed  for  time." 

Now,  even  while  he  was  uttering 
these  few  words,  quick  as  lightning, 
Camille  resolved  to  let  Kaynal  have 
his  own  way.  What  on  earth  did  it 
matter  to  him  (Camille)  !  And  he 
felt  a  sudden  and  natural  longing  to 
take  this  man's  hand  :  not  because 
Kaynal  had  once  been  his  l»enefactor, 
but  because  he  was  going  to  be  Kay- 
nal's  benefactor. 

"  And  things  are  changed,  Dujardin. 
When  duty  sounds  the  recall,  a  sol- 
dier's heart  leaves  private  quarrels. 
See  !  I  come  to  you  without  anger 
and  ill-will.  Just  now  my  voice  was 
loud,  my  manner,  I  dare  say,  oflTen- 
sivc,  and  menacing  even,  and  that  al- 
ways tcmj)ts  a  brave  fellow  like  you 
to  resist.  But  now,  you  see,  I  am 
harmless  as  a  woman.  We  are  alone. 
Humbug  to  the  winds  !  I  know  that 
you  arc  the  only  man  fit  to  command 
a  division  in  this  army.  I  know  that, 
when  you  say  the  assault  of  that  ban- 


WHITE   LIF.S. 


259 


tion  is  death,  death  it  is.  To  the 
point,  then.  Now  that  my  manner  is 
no  longer  irritatin<^,  now  that  I  am 
gonig  to  die,  Camille  Dujardin,  my 
old  comrade,  have  you  the  heart  to 
refuse  me  1  am  I  to  die  unhappy  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  whatever  you  like." 

"  You  will  marry  that  poor  girl, 
then  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  " 

"  Aha !  did  not  I  always  say  he  was 
a  good  fellow  ?  Clcncli  the  nail ;  give 
me  your  honor." 

"1  give  you  my  honor  to  marry 
her,  if  I  live." 

"  You  take  a  load  off  me.  Heaven 
will  reward  you.  In  one  hour  those 
poor  women,  whose  support  I  had 
promised  to  be,  will  lose  their  pro- 
tector :  but  I  give  them  anotlicr  in 
you.  We  shall  not  leave  that  family 
in  tears,  Laure  in  shame,  and  your 
child  without  a  name." 

"  My  child  ?  Raynal  ?  "  and  he 
looked  amazed.  What  new  decep- 
tion was  this  ? 

"  Poor  little  fellow  !  I  surprised 
him  in  his  cradle ;  his  mother  and 
Josephine  Avere  rocking  him,  and 
singing  over  him.  O,  it  was  a  scene, 
I  can  tell  you !  My  poor  wife  had 
been  ill  for  some  time,  and  was  so 
weakened  by  it,  that  I  frightened  her 
into  a  fit,  stealing  a  marcli  on  her 
that  way.  She  fainted  away.  Per- 
haps it  is  as  well  she  did  :  for  I  —  I 
did  not  know  what  to  think  :  it  looked 
ugly :  but,  while  she  lay  at  our  feet 
insensible,  I  forced  the  truth  from 
Laure  ;  she  owned  the  boy  was  hers." 

While  Raynal  told  him  this  strange 
story,  Camille  turned  hot  and  cold. 
First  came  a  thrill  of  glowing  joy. 
He  had  the  clew  to  all  this.  He  was 
a  father.  That  child  was  Josephine's 
and  his.  The  next  moment  he  froze 
within.  So  Josephine  had  not  only 
gulled  her  husband,  but  iiim  too.  Siie 
had  refused  him  the  sad  consolation  of 
knowing  he  had  a  child.  Cruelty,  cal- 
culation, and  baseness  unexampled ! 

Here  was  a  creature  who  could  sac- 
rifice anything  and  anybody  to  her 
comfort,    to    the    peace    and   sordid 


smoothness  of  her  domestic  life.  She 
stood  between  two  men,  —  a  thing! 
Between  two  truths,  —  a  double  lie. 

His  heart,  in  one  moment,  turned 
against  her  like  a  stone.  A  musket 
bullet  through  the  body  does  not 
turn  life  to  death  quicker  than  Ray- 
nal turned  his  rival's  love  to  hatred 
and  scorn  :  that  love  which  neither 
wounds,  absence,  prison,  nor  even 
her  want  of  constancy  had  prevailed 
to  shake ! 

"  Out  of  my  bosom  !  "  he  cried,  — 
"out  of  it,  in  this  world  and  the 
next !  " 

He  forgot,  in  his  lofty  rage,  who 
stood  beside  him. 

"  What  ?  —  what  ?  " 

"  No  matter.  Give  me  your  hand, 
comrade." 

"  There." 

"  I  esteem  you,  Raynal.  You  are 
truth,  TOO  arc  a  man,  and  deserve  a 
better  lot." 

"  Don't  say  that,"  replied  Raynal, 
quite  misunderstanding  him.  "It  is 
a  soldier's  end  :  I  never  desired  nor 
hoped  a  better,  —  only,  of  course,  I 
feel  a  little  regret.  You  are  a  happy 
fellow,  to  have  a  child  and  to  live  to 
see  it  and  Iier." 

"  0  yes  !  I  am  very  happy,"  re- 
plied the  poor  fellow,  his  lip  quiver- 
ing. 

"  Watch  over  those  poor  women, 
comrade,  and  sometimes  speak  to 
them  of  me.  It  is  foolish,  but  we 
like  to  be  remembered." 

"  Yes  ;  but  do  not  let  us  speak  of 
that.  Raynal,  you  and  I  were  lieu- 
tenants together  ;  do  you  remember 
saving  my  life  in  the  Arno  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  now  you  mention  it,  I  do." 

"Promise  me,  if  you  should  live, 
to  remember  not  our  quarrel  of  to- 
day, nor  anything ;  but  only  those 
early  days,  and  this  afternoon." 

"I  do." 

"  Your  hand,  dear  Raynal." 

"  There,  ohl  comrade,  there." 

They  wrung  one  another's  hands, 
and  turned  away  and  hid  their  faces 
from  each  other,  for  their  eyes  were 
moist. 


200 


wiirri;  i.ir.s. 


"  This  won't  ilo,  comnulc  ;  I  must 
go.  1  shall  iittack  IVuin  your  posi- 
tion. So  I  shiill  go  down  the  line, 
and  hriuf;  the  men  up.  Meantime 
l)ick  me  your  deluchuient.  (iive  me  ■ 
a  good  spice  of  veterans.  I  shall  get  ■ 
one  word  with  you  helbre  we  go  out. 
God  hless  vou  !  " 

"  God  bless  you,  llaynal !  " 

The  moment  liaynal  was  gone,  Ca- 
mille  beckoned  a  lieutenant  to  him, 
and  ordered  half  the  brigade  to  form 
in  a  strong  column  on  both  sides 
Death's  Alley. 

His  eye  fell  ujion  Private  Dard. 

"  Come  here,"  saitl  he. 

Dard  came  and  saluted. 

"  Have  you  anybody  at  Beaurc- 
paire  that  would  be  sorry  if  vou  were 
kille(i  ?  " 

"  Yes,  colonel :  Jacintha,  that  us^d 
to  make  your  broth,  colonel." 

"  Take  this  line  to  Colonel  Raynal. 
You  will  find  him  with  the  12th  Bri- 
gade." 

He  wrote  a  few  lines  in  pencil, 
folded  them,  and  Dard  went  off  with 
them,  little  dreaming  that  the  colonel 
of  his  brigade  was  taking  the  trouble 
to  save  his  life,  because  he  came  from 
Beaurepaire.  Colonel  Dujardin  then 
went  into  his  tent  and  closed  the 
aperture,  and  took  the  good  book  the 
priest  had  given  liim,  and  prayed 
humbly,  and  forgave  all  tlie  world. 

Then  he  sat  down,  his  head  in  his 
hands,  and  thought  of  his  child,  and 
how  hard  it  was  he  must  die  anil 
never  .see  him.  One  sad  sob  at  tiiis, 
—  one  only. 

Then  he  lighted  a  candle  and  sealed 
np  his  orders  of  valor,  and  wrote  a 
line  begging  that  tliey  might  be  sent 
to  bis  sister.  He  also  scaled  up  his 
purse  and  left  a  memorandum  that 
the  contents  should  be  given  to  dis- 
abled soldiers  of  his  brigade,  upon 
their  being  invalided. 

Then  he  took  out  Josephine's  let- 
ter. "  Poor  coward,"  he  said,  "  let 
me  not  l)e  unkind.  See,  I  burn  your 
letter,  lest  it  should  be  found,  and  dis- 
turb the  peace  you  prize  so  highly. 
I  too  shall  soon  be  at  peace,  thank 


God  !  "  He  lighted  it,  and  dro])pcd 
it  on  the  ground  :  it  burned  slowly 
away.  Ho  eyed  it.  de8j)airingly. 
"  Ay !  you  j)erish,  last  record  of  an 
unhappy  love  :  and,  as  you  jiiuss  away, 
so  I  am  going,  —  my  soul  to  its  Crea- 
tor, my  lx)dy  to  dust,  —  ay,  poor  let- 
ter, even  so  pass  away  my  life  wasted 
by  generals  not  fit  to  command  a  cor- 
poral's guard,  —  my  hopes  of  glory, 
and  my  dreams  of  love,  —  it  all  ends 
to-day  ;  at  nine-and-twenty." 

He  put  his  white  handkerchief  to 
his  eyes.  Josephine  had  given  it  him. 
He  cried  a  little,  not  at  dying,  but  at 
seeing  his  life  thrown  away. 

When  he  had  done  crying,  he  put 
his  white  handkerchief  in  his  bosom, 
and  the  whole  man  was  transformed 
beyond  language  to  expres.s.  Powder 
does  not  change  more  when  it  catches 
fire.  He  rose  that  moment,  and  went 
like  a  flash  of  lightning  out  of  the 
tent.  The  next,  he  came  down  like  a 
falcon  between  tlie  lines  of  the  strong 
column  in  Death's  Alley. 

"Attention,"  cried  the  sergeants, 
"the  colonel!" 

There  was  a  dead  silence,  for  the 
bare  sight  of  that  erect  and  inspired 
figure  made  the  men's  bosoms  thrill 
with  the  certainty  of  great  deeds  to 
come :  the  light  of  battle  was  in  his 
eye.  No  longer  the  moody  colonel ; 
but  a  thunderbolt  of  war,  r«id-hot,  and 
waiting  to  be  launched. 

"  Orticcrs,  sergeants,  soldiers,  a 
word  with  you  !  " 

Lti  Cioix.     "Attention!" 

"Do  you  know  what  passed  here 
five  minutes  ago  ?  " 

"  The  attack  of  the  bastion  was 
settled  !  "  cried  a  captain. 

"  It  was,  and  who  was  to  lead  tho 
assault?  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  No !  " 

"A  colonel  from  Egypt." 

A  trroan  from  the  men. 

"  With  detachments  from  the  other 
brigades." 

"  Ah  !  "  an  angry  roar. 

Colonel  Dujardin  walked  quickly 
down  between  the  two  lines,  looking 
with  his  fiery  eye  into  the  men's  eyea 


WHITK  LIES. 


261 


on  his  right.  Then  he  came  haclv  on 
t'.ie  other  side,  and,  as  he  went,  he 
liyjhted  those  men's  cj'cs  with  Iiis  own. 
It  was  a  torch  passinj^  along  a  line  of 
ready  gas-lights. 

"  The  work  to  us  !  "  he  cried,  in  a 
voic3  like  a  clarion,  that  fired  the 
licarts  as  his  eye  had  fired  the  eyes,  — 
"  the  triumpli  to  strangers  !  our  fa- 
tigues c^nd  our  losses  have  not  gained 
the  brigade  the  honor  of  going  out  at 
those  fellows  that  have  killed  so  many 
of  our  comrades." 

A  fierce  groan  from  the  men. 

"  What !  shall  the  colors  of  another 
brigade  and  not  ours  fly  from  that 
bastion  this  afternoon  1 " 

"No!  No  !  "  in  a  roar  like  thun- 
der. 

"  Ah !  you  are  of  mj'  mind.  Atten- 
tion !  the  attack  is  fixed  for  five 
o'clock." 

"  Suppose  you  and  I  were  to  carry 
the  bastion  ten  minutes  before  the 
colonel  from  Egypt  can  bring  his  men 
upon  the  grouncl  7  " 

A  fierce  roar  of  joy  and  laughter  : 
the  strange  laughter  of  veterans  and 
born  invincibles. 

"  That  was  a  question  I  put  to  your 
hearts,  —  your  answer'?  " 

The  answer  was  a  yell  of  exulting 
assent,  but  it  Avas  half  drowned  by  an- 
other response,  the  thunder  of  the  im- 
patient drums,  and  the  rattle  of  fixing 
bayonets. 

The  colonel  told  off  a  party  to  the 
battery. 

"Level  the  guns  at  the  top  tier. 
Fire  at  my  signal,  and  keep  firing 
over  our  heads,  till  you  sec  our  colors 
on  the  place." 

He  then  darted  to  the  head  of  the 
column,  which  instantly  formed  behind 
him  in  the  centre  of  Death's  AUc}'. 

"  The  colors  !  No  hand  but  mine 
shall  hold  them  to-day." 

They  were  instantly  brought  him, 
his  left  hand  shook  them  free  in  the 
afternoon  sun. 

A  deep  murmur  of  joy  for  the  old 
hands,  at  the  now  unwonted  sight. 
Out  flashed  his  sword  like  steel  light- 
ninjr.     He  waved  it  to  the  hatterv. 


Bang!  bang!  bang!  bang!  went 
the  cannon,  and  the  smoke  rolled  over 
the  trenches.  At  the  same  moment 
up  went  the  colors  waving,  and  the 
colonel's  clarion  voice  pealed  high 
above  all. 

"  Twenty-fourth,   demi  -  brigade,  — 

FORWARD  !  !  !  " 

They  went  so  swiftly  out  of  the 
trenches  that  they  were  not  seen 
through  their  own  smoke  tmtil  they 
had  run  some  sixty  yards.  No  sooner 
were  they  seen  coming  on  like  devils 
through  their  own  smoke,  than  two 
thousand  muskets  were  levelled  at 
them  from  all  the  Prussian  line.  It 
was  not  a  rattle  of  small  arms,  —  it 
was  a  crash  :  and  the  men  fell  fast : 
but  in  a  moment  they  were  seen  to 
spread  out  like  a  fan,  and  to  offer  less 
mark,  and,  when  tl  e  fm  closed  again, 
it  half  encircled  the  hastion.  It  was 
a  French  attack.  Part  swarmed  at  it 
in  front  like  bees,  part  swept  round 
the  glacis  and  flanked  it.  They  were 
seen  to  fall  in  numbers,  shot  down 
from  the  embrasures.  But  the  living 
took  the  place  of  the  dead  :  and  the 
fight  raged  evenly  there.  Where  are 
the  colors  ?  Towards  the  rear  there. 
The  colonel  and  a  hundred  men  are 
fighting  hand  to  hand  with  the  Prus- 
sians, who  have  charged  out  at  the 
back  doors  of  the  bastion.  Success 
there  !  and  the  bastion  must  fall,  — 
both  sides  know  this. 

All  in  a  moment  the  colors  disap- 
peared. There  was  a  groan  from  the 
French  lines.  No  !  there  they  were 
again,  and  close  under  the  bastion. 

And  now  in  front  the  attack  was  so 
hot,  that  often  the  Prussian  gunners 
were  seen  to  jump  down,  driven  from 
their  posts  :  and  the  next  moment  a 
fierce  hurrah  from  the  rear  told  that 
the  French  had  won  some  great  ad- 
vantage there.  The  fire  slacking  told 
a  similar  tale,  and  presently  down 
came  the  Prussian  flag-staft'.  That 
might  be  an  accident.  A  few  mo- 
ments of  thirsting  expectation,  and 
up  went  the  colors  of  the  24tli  Brigade 
upon  the  Bastion  St.  Andre'. 

The  whole  French  armv  raised  a 


262 


wiini:  LiKs. 


shout  that  rent  the  sky,  nml  tlicir  can- 
non t>e;;an  to  play  on  tlir  rriissian 
lines,  and  iH-twci-n  the  l)asti()n  and 
tho  nearest  furt,  to  prevent  a  re(a|)- 
ture. 

All  in  a  moment  sliot  from  the  earth 
n  cnhic  acre  of  lire  wlicre  last  the  bas- 
tion was  seen :  it  carried  up  a  licavy 
mountain  of  red  and  black  smoke, 
that  looked  solid  as  marble.  There 
was  a  heavy,  sullen,  tremendous  ex- 
plosion, that  snutK-il  out  the  sound  of 
the  cannon,  and  ])araly/.cd  the  French 
and  Prussian  fjunners'  hands,  and 
checked  the  very  beating  of  th^ir 
hearts.  Thirty  thousand  ])Ounds  of 
jrunpowdcr  were  in  that  awful  exj)Io- 
sion.  Then  war  itself  held  its  breath, 
and  both  armies,  like  peaceful  specta- 
tors, gazed  wonder-struck,  terror- 
struck.  Great  hell  seemed  to  have 
burst  throufrh  the  earth's  crust,  and  to 
be  rushing  at  heaven.  Huge  stones, 
cannon,  corpses,  and  limbs  of  .soldiers, 
were  seen  driven  or  falling  through 
the  smoke.  Some  of  these  last  even 
came  quite  clear  of  the  ruins,  ay,  into 
the  French  and  Prussian  lines,  that 
even  the  veterans  put  their  hands  to 
their  eyes.  Jtaynal  felt  something 
patter  on  him  from  the  sky,  —  it  was 
blood,  —  a  comrade's,  perhaps.  Oh ! 
war !  war ! 

The  smoke  cleared.  Where  a  mo- 
ment before  the  great  bastion  stooil 
and  fought  was  a  monstrous  pile  of 
blackened,  bloody  stones  and  timbers, 
with  dismounted  cannon,  sticking  up 
here  and  there. 

And,  rent  and  crushed  to  atoms 
beneath  the  smokiui^  mass,  lay  the 
relics  of  the  gallant  brigade  and  their 
victorious  colors. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

A  FEW  wounded  soldiers  of  the 
brigade  lay  still  and  feigned  death 
till  dusk.  Then  they  crept  back  to 
the  trenches.  These  had  all  l)ccn 
btruek  down,  or  disabled  short  of  the 


bastion.  Of  those  that  hiul  taken  the 
jilaee  no  one  came  home. 

Kaymil,  after  the  lirst  stupefaction, 
pressed  hard  and  even  angrilv  for  an 
immediate  assault  on  the  whole  Prus- 
sian line.  Not  they.  It  was  on  najicr 
that  the  assault  should  Ik:  at  daybreak 
to-morrow.  Lilora  scripta  unmet. 
This  sort  of  leader  cannot  inipro- 
vise. 

Kagc  nnd  grief  in  liis  heart,  IJaynal 
waited,  chafing  like  a  blood-horse  in 
the  trenches,  till  five  minutes  past 
midnight.  He  was  then  commamlcr 
of  the  brigade,  gave  his  orders,  and 
took  thirty  men  out  to  creep  up  to  Ihc 
wreck  of  the  bastion,  and  find  the  late 
colonel's  body. 

(loing  for  so  pious  a  purpose,  ho 
was  rewarded  by  an  im])ortant  dis- 
covery. 'J"he  whole  I'russiau  lines 
had  been  abandoned  since  simset,  and, 
mounting  cautiously  on  the  ramparts, 
Kaynal  saw  the  town  too  was  evacu- 
ated, and  lights  and  other  indications 
on  arising  ground  behind  it  convinced 
him  that  the  Prussians  were  in  full  re- 
treat, probably  to  effect  that  junction 
with  other  forces  wiiieh  the  assault  ho 
had  recommended  would  have  ren- 
dered impossible. 

They  now  lighted  lanterns,  and 
searched  all  over  and  round  the  bas- 
tion for  the  ])oor  colonel.  In  tlie  rear 
of  the  bastion  they  found  many  French 
soldiers,  most  of  whom  had  died  by 
the  li.'iyonct.  The  Prussian  dead  had 
all  been  carried  ofT. 

Here  they  found  the  talkative  Ser- 
geant I^a  Croix.  The  poor  fellow 
was  silent  enough  now.  A  terrible 
sabre-cut  on  the  skull.  'J'hc  colonel 
was  not  there.  Kaynal  groane<l,  and 
led  the  way  on  to  the  bastion.  The 
ruins  still  smoked.  Seven  or  eight 
lx)dics  were  discovered  by  an  arm  or 
a  foot  protruding  through  the  masses 
of  masonry.  Of  these  some  M'crc 
Prussians.  A  proof  that  some  de- 
voted hand  had  fired  the  train,  and 
destroyed  both  friend  and  foe. 

They  fouml  the  tube  of  Long  Tom 
sticking  up,  just  as  he  had  shown 
over  the  battlements  that  glorious  day, 


WHITE  LIES. 


263 


with  tliij  exception,  that  a  fi:rcat  piece 
was  knociced  oft"  his  lip,  and  the  slice 
ended  in  a  lon<;  broad  crack. 

The  soldiers  looked  at  this.  "  That 
is  our  bullets'  work,"  said  tlic}-.  Then 
one  old  veteran  touched  his  cap,  and 
told  Eaynal,  gravely,  he  knew  where 
their  beloved  colonel  was. 

"Dig  here,  to  the  bottom,"  said  he. 
"  He  lies  beneath  his  work." 

Improbable  and  superstitious  as  this 
was,  the  hearts  of  the  soldiers  assented 
to  it. 

Presently  there  was  a  joyful  cry 
outside  the  bastion.  A  rush  was 
made  thither.  But  it  proved  to  be 
only  Dard,  who  had  discovered  that 
Sergeant  La  Croix's  heart  still  beat. 

They  took  him  up  carefully,  and 
carried  him  gently  into  camp.  To 
Dard's  delight  the  surgeon  pronounced 
him  curable.  For  all  that,  he  was 
three  days  insensible,  and  after  that 
unfit  for  duty.  So  they  sent  him 
home  invalided,  with  a  hundred  francs 
out  of  the  poor  colonel's  purse. 

Raynal  reported  the  evacuation  of 
the  place,  and  that  Colonel  Dujardin 
was  buried  imder  the  bastion.  He 
then  bound  a  black  scarf  across  his 
sick  heart,  and  rode  out  of  the 
camp. 

And  how  came  Jean  Raynal  to  turn 
his  back  on  war  ? 

His  rival  was  the  cause. 

The  words  Camille  had  scratched 
with  a  pencil,  and  sent  him  from  tiic 
edge  of  the  grave,  were  few,  but 
great. 

"  A  dead  man  takes  you  once  more 
by  the  hand.  My  last  thought,  thank 
God,  is  France.  For  her  sake  and 
mine,  Raynal,  go  for  General  Bo- 
naparte. Tell  him,  from  a  dying 
soldier,  the  Rhine  is  a  river  to  these 
generals,  but  to  him  afield  of  glory. 
He  will  lay  out  our  lives,  not  waste 
them.     Go ! " 

The  24th  Brigade,  thinned  already 
by  hard  service,  was  reduced  to  a  file 
or  two  by  the  Sampson  bastion. 

It  was  incorporated  with  the  12th, 
and  Ravnal  rode  heavy  at  heart  to 
I'aris, 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

"  How  is  my  poor  Josephine  to- 
day, doctor "?  " 

"  Much  better ;  she  tells  me  she 
slept  without  laudanum  last  night : 
the  first  night  this  ten  days.  Nature 
will  win  the  day,  —  with  my  assist- 
ance." 

"  No,  doctor ;  not  unless  you  can 
cure  her  of  that  which  made  her 
sicken." 

"  Sun,  air,  and  exercise  must  com- 
plete the  work,"  said  the  doctor,  eva- 
sively. ** ' 

"  Can  they  cure  her  of  her  sor- 
row ?  " 

"  What  sorrow  ?  " 

"  She  has  a  secret  sorrow,  and  so 
have  you,  Laure." 

"  I  ?  mamma  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  know  you  think  me  very 
blind,  but  there  is  something  myste- 
rious going  on  here,  which  peeps 
through  all  your  precautions." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  mamma  ?  " 

"  I  mean,  Laure,  that  my  patience 
is  worn  out  at  last.  I  am  tired  of 
playing  the  part  of  a  statue  amongst 
you.  Raynal's  gloomy  air  as  he  left 
us  ;  Josephine  ill  ever  since,  bursting 
into  tears  at  every  word  ;  Laure  pale 
and  changed,  hiding  an  unaccounta- 
ble sadness  under  a  forced  smile  : 
don't  interrupt  me,  Laure !  Edouard, 
who  was  almost  like  a  son,  gone  oft' 
without  a  word.  Never  comes  near 
us!" 

"  He  is  gone  a  journey,  mam- 
ma." 

"  And  not  returned  ?  " 

"  No  !  " 

"  Is  that  so,  doctor  ?  " 

"I  believe  so,"  replied  the  doctor. 
"  I  called  on  him  yesterday,  and  the 
servant  said  he  was  away." 

"  Good  !  "  said  the  baroness.  "  It 
is  clear  I  am  to  learn  nothing  from 
you  two  :  but  it  does  not  follow  I 
will  not  learn  from  some  one  else." 

The  doctor  and  Laure  exchanged 
an  uneasy  look. 

"  This  uncomfortable  smiling  and 
unreasonable  crying :    these   ajipeur- 


2(U 


will  I  1.    I.IKS. 


niuos  of  the  n'.iscnt,  niul  disappcar- 
ancos  of  the  present." 

"  I)is!ip|K':\ranecs  of  the  present, 
mnmiiia  f     What  do  voii  mean  ?  " 

"  No  niattt-r.  Ail  these  mysteries 
of  Beaurepaire  will,  jierhaps,  take 
less  time  to  penetrate  than  those  of 
Uilolpho." 

"  Keally,"  said  St.  Anhin,  quietly, 
"  I  (lid  not  think  my  old  friend  sueh 
an  adept  at  htiildinj^  mare's  nests, 
and  tornicntinp  lierself." 

"  It  is  easy  to  understand,"  replied 
the  baroness.  "  I  am  an  ohl  woman. 
I  liaNT  seen  crooked.  I  hear  amiss. 
I  understand  by  contraries.  For  all 
that,  monsieur,  with  your  jxirmission, 
I  will  sav  two  words  to  mv  dautrh- 
tcr." 

"  I  retire,  mndamc." 

Laure  nerved  herself  for  what  was 
to  conic  :  but  the  trial  in  store  for  her 
was  a  very  dirt'erent  one  from  what 
she  expected.  She  was  bracing  her- 
self up  against  a  severe  interroga- 
tory. 

instead  of  that  her  mother  sat 
down,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  O  mamma !  my  sweet  mam- 
ma !  "  cried  Laure,  and  was  on  her 
knees  at  her  mother's  feet  in  a  mo- 
ment. 

"  My  pirl,"  sobbed  the  old  lady, 
"  may  you  never  know  what  a  moth- 
er feels,  who  finds  herself  shut  out 
Irom  her  d  lUf^hters'  hearts !  " 

"0  mamma!  arc  vou  not  in  my 
heart  ?  " 

"No!  or  I  should  be  in  your  con- 
fidence. Sometimes  I  think  it  is  my 
fault.  The  age  1  was  born  in  was 
strict.  A  mother  now-a-days  seems 
to  be  a  sort  of  elder  sister.  In  my 
day  she  was  something  more.  Yet 
I  ioved  my  mother  as  well  or  better 
than  I  did  my  sisters.  But  it  is 
not  so  with  those  I  have  borne  in  my 
bosom,  and  nursed  upon  my  knee." 

Laure's  sob  at  this  became  so  wild 
and  despairing,  that  the  baroness  was 
afraid  to  say  too  much,  though  her 
bosom  was  too  full  of  ])ent-U|)  grief. 
I'oor  old  lady,  her  heart  had  long 
been  sore,  but  pride  had  kept  her  silent. 


"  f-ome,  Laure,"  she  said,  "do  not 
cry  like  that.  It  is  not  too  late  to 
take  your  jioor  old  mother  into  your 
contidenee.  Why  is  this  mystery  and 
this  sorrow  on  us?  How  comes  it  I 
intercept,  at  every  instant,  glances 
that  were  never  intended  for  me  ? 
The  very  air  is  loaded  with  signals 
and  secrecy.  What  does  it  all 
mean  ?  " 

No  answer  but  sobs. 

"  Is  some  deceit  then  going  on  ?  " 

No  answer  but  sobs. 

"  I  ask  you  once  more :  I  will 
never  descend  to  ask  you  again  :  give 
me  some  better  reply  than  these  sul- 
len sobs.  You  will  not  ?  Well,  since 
you  will  not  tell  me  anything —  " 

"  I  cannot,  —  I  have  nothing  to 
tell." 

"  Will  you  do  something  for  me, 
mademoiselle  ? " 

"  O  yes,  mamma  !  anything,  every- 
thing.''^ 

"  I  shall  not  ask  much.  I  should 
hesitate  now  to  draw  largely  on  your 
affection.  It  is  onlv  to  write  a  let- 
ter." 

Laure  jumped  up  eagerly,  and 
went  zealously  for  the  pajjcr  and 
ink,  thankful  to  her  mother  for  giv- 
ing her  something  she  cou/d  do  for 
her. 

"  Now  write." 

Laure  took  the  pen  with  alacrity. 

"  Dear  Monsieur  liiviae  !  " 

"  O  mamma  !  is  it  to  him  ?  " 

"  Oblif/e  me.  by  coininij  here  at  i/our 
very  farliesl  convenience.  Is  it  wiit- 
ten  ? " 

"  Yes  !  "  faltered  Laure,  trem- 
bling. 

"  Then  sign  my  name." 

"  0,  thank  yon,  mamma  !  " 

"Fold  it,  —  address  it  to  his  lodg- 
ings." 

"  Yes,  there.  Shall  I  send  Jacintlia 
whh  it?" 

"  No,  mademoiselle,  you  will  not 
.send  .lacintha  with  it.  I  tru.s't  neither 
her  nor  you! — give  it  me.  No,  I 
trust  neither  the  friend  of  twenty 
years,  nor  the  servant  that  staycrl  by 
me  in  adversity,  nor  the  daughter  I 


I 


WHITE   LIES. 


265 


sufFered  for,  and  nursed.  And  why 
don't  I  trust  you  i  You  have  told  me 
a  lie!  I  saw  Edouard  Kiviero  in  the 
park  two  days  ago,  —  I  saw  him.  My 
old  eyes  are  feeble,  —  but  they  are  not 
liars.  I  saw  him.  Send  my  break- 
fast to  my  own  room.  I  come  of  an 
ancient  race :  I  could  not  sit  with 
liars.  I  should  forget  courtesy, — 
you  would  all  see  my  scorn  in  my 
face." 

She  went  out,  with  the  letter  in  her 
hand,  leaving  Laure  sick  and  terrified 
at  these  stern  words  from  lips  so  be- 
loved. 

Edouard  Riviere  fell,  in  one  night, 
from  happiness  such  as  dull  souls 
cannot  imagine  to  deep  and  hopeless 
misery. 

He  lost  that,  which,  to  every  heart 
capable  of  loving,  is  the  greatest 
earthly  good  :  the  woman  he  adored, 
—  and  with  her  he  lost  those  prime 
treasures  of  the  soul,  —  belief  in  hu- 
man goodness  and  in  female  purity. 

To  him  there  could  be  no  more  in 
nature  a  candid  eye,  a  virtuous,  ready- 
mantling  cheek.  Frailty  and  treach- 
ery had  worn  these  signs  of  virtue  and 
nobility  too  skilfully  for  human  eye 
to  detect :  his  heart  was  broken  and 
his  faith  was  gone. 

For  who  could  he  now  trust  or  be- 
lieve in  1  Here  was  a  creature  whose 
virtues  seemed  to  make  frailty  impos- 
sible :  treachery,  doubly  impossible  : 
a  creature  whose  faults  —  for  faults 
she  had  —  had  seemed  as  opposite  to 
treachery  as  her  very  virtues  were. 
Yet  she  was  all  frailty  and  lies. 

He  passed  in  that  one  night  of 
anguish  from  youth  to  age.  He 
went  about  his  business  like  a  leaden 
thing.  His  food  was  tasteless.  His 
life  seemed  ended.  Nothing  appeared 
what  it  had  been.  The  very  land- 
scape seemed  cut  in  stone,  and  he 
a  stone  in  the  middle  of  it,  and  his 
heart  a  stone  in  him.  At  times,  across 
that  heavy  heart  came  gushes  of  furi- 
ous rage  and  bitter  mortification.  For 
his  vanity  had  been  stabbed  as  fiercely 
as  his  love.  'Georges  Dandin  !  "  he 
12 


would  cry.  "  You  said  well,  old  man. 
I  wondered  at  your  word  then. 
Georges  Dandin !  curse  her !  curse 
her !  "  But  love  and  misery  overpow- 
ered these  heats,  and  froze  him  to 
stone  again. 

The  poor  boy  pined  and  pined.  His 
clothes  hung  loose  about  him ;  his 
face  was  so  drawn  with  suffering  you 
would  not  have  known  him.  He 
hated  company.  The  things  he  was 
expected  to  talk  about !  — he  with  his 
crushed  heart.  He  could  not.  He 
would  not.  He  shunned  all  the 
world  ;  he  went  alone  like  a  wounded 
deer.  The  good  doctor,  on  his  return 
from  Paris,  called  on  him  to  see  if  he 
was  ill :  since  he  had  not  come  for 
days  to  the  chateau.  He  saw  the  doc- 
tor coming,  and  bade  the  servant  say 
he  was  not  in  the  village. 

He  drew  down  the  blind,  that  he 
might  never  see  the  chateau  again. 
He  drew  it  up  again  :  he  could  not 
exist  without  seeing  it.  "  She  will  be 
miserable,  too,"  he  cried,  gnashing 
his  teeth.  "  She  will  see  whether  she 
has  chosen  well."  At  other  times  all 
his  courage,  and  his  hatred,  and  his 
wounded  vanity,  were  drowned  in  his 
love  and  its  "despair,  and  then  he 
bowed  his  head,  and  sobbed  and  cried 
as  if  his  heart  would  burst.  This 
very  day  he  was  so  sobbing  with  lii^ 
head  on  the  table,  when  his  landlady 
tapped  at  his  door.  He  started  up, 
and  turned  his  head  away  from  the 
door. 

"A  young  woman  from  Beaure- 
paire,   monsieur  !  " 

"  From  Beaurepaire  ?  "  His  heart 
gave  a  furious  leap.    "  Show  her  in." 

He  wiped  his  eyes  and  seated  him- 
self at  a  table,  and,  all  in  a  flutter, 
pretended  to  be  the  State's. 

It  was  not  Jacintlia,  as  he  expected, 
but  the  other  servant.  She  made  a 
low  reverence,  cast  a  look  of  admira- 
tion on  iiim,  and  gave  him  a  -letter. 
His  eye  darted  on  it :  his  iiand  trem- 
bled as  he  took  it.  He  turned  awny 
again  to  open  it.  He  forced  himself 
to  say,  in  a  tolerably  calm  voice,  "  I 
will  send  an  answer.'' 


26G 


WIIITH   LIES. 


After  the  first   violent   cinotinn,   a  ' 

frcnt  stnifjcle.  Her  liaiidwriiiii;;. 
ler  mother's  letter.  "Ah!  1  see! 
The  olil  woman  is  to  he  drawn  into  it, 
too.  She  is  to  lielp  to  make  (ieorfres 
Diindiii  of  me.  I  will  f;o.  1  will 
Icitlle  them  all.  I  will  ex|X)se  this 
nest  of  depravity,  all  eeremony  on  the 
surfaec,  and  vohijituousness  and 
treachery  below.  O  God  !  who  could 
believe  that  creature  never  loved  me ! 
They  shall  none  of  them  sec  my 
weakness.  Their  benefactor  shall  l)C 
still  their  superior.  They  siiall  see 
me  cold  as  ice,  and  bitter  as  pill." 

He  made  his  toilet  with  care,  and 
took  his  hat  and  went  to  I'eaurepairc 
a.s  slowly  as  he  used  to  go  quickly 
once. 

In  tlie  present  state  of  things  at 
Beaurepaire,  we  must  go  back  a  step. 

When  Josephine  and  Laurc  broke 
from  that  startled  slumber  that  fol- 
lowed tlic  exhaustion  of  that  troubled 
night,  Laure  was  by  far  the  more 
wretched  of  the  two.  She  had  not 
only  dishonored  herself,  but  stabbed 
the  man  she  loved. 

Josephine,  on  the  other  hand,  was 
exhausted,  but  calm.  The  fearful 
escape  she  had  had  softcneil  down  by 
contrast  her  more  distant  terrors. 

She  was  beginning  to  shut  her  eyes 
again,  and  let  herself  drift.  Above 
nil,  the  glimpse  of  her  boy  comforted 
her,  and  the  thought  tliat  in  three 
weeks  she  could  have  him  beside  her 
in  Paris. 

This  deceitful  calm  of  the  heart 
only  lasted  three  days. 

Carefully  encouraged  by  Laure,  it 
was  destroyed  by  .Jaciniha. 

Jacintha,  conscious  that  she  had  be- 
trayed her  part,  was  almost  heart- 
broken. She,  ashamed  to  appear  be- 
fore her  young  mistress,  and  coward- 
like,  wanted  to  avoid  knowing  even 
how  much  harm  she  had  done. 

She  pretended  toothache,  botmd 
up  her  face,  and  never  stirred  from 
the  kitchen.  But  she  was  not  to  es- 
cape :  the  other  servant  came  down 
with  a  message  :  — 


"  Madame  Raynal  wanted  to  gee 
her  directly." 

She  came,  quaking,  and  foand  Jo- 
se|)hine  all  alone. 

Jose|)liine  rose  to  meet  her,  and, 
casting  a  furtive  glance  round  the 
room  first,  threw  her  arms  round  Ju- 
cintha's  neck,  and  embraced  her  with 
many  tears. 

"  Was  ever  fidelity  like  yours  ? 
how  could  you  do  it,  Jacintha  ?  ami 
how  can  I  ever  repay  it  ?  You  arc 
my  superior  ;  it  is  base  for  me  to  ac- 
cept sucli  n  sacrifice  from  any  wo- 
man !  " 

Jacintha  was  so  confounded  she 
did  not  know  what  U)  say.  But  it 
was  a  mystification  that  could  not  en- 
dure long  between  two  women,  who 
were  both  deceived  by  a  third.  Be- 
tween them  they  soon  discovered 
that  it  must  have  been  Laure  who 
had  sacrificed  herself. 

"  And  Edouard  has  never  been 
here  since." 

"  And  never  will,  madamc." 

"  Yes,  he  shall  !  there  must  be 
some  limit  even  to  my  feebleness  and 
my  sister's  devotion.  You  shall  Uike 
a  line  to  him  from  me.  1  will  write  it 
this  moment." 

The  letter  wa-s  written.  But  it 
was  never  sent.  Laure  surprised  Jo- 
sephine and  Jacintha  together:  saw 
a  letter  was  being  written,  asked  to 
see  it ;  on  Jo.sephine's  hesitating, 
snatched  it  out  of  her  hands  and  tore 
it  to  yjieccs,  and  told  Jacintha  to 
leave  the  room.  Siie  hated  the  sight 
of  poor  Jacintha,  who  had  slej)t  at 
the  very  moment  when  all  dejrcnded 
on  her  watchfulness. 

"  You  were  going  to  send  to  him, 
unknown  to  me." 

"  Forgive  me,  Laure." 

"  ()  Jose])hine  !    is  it  come  to  this  ? 

WoLI.n    YOU    DECEIVE    ME?" 

"    You       HAVE        DECEIVED        ME  ! 

Yes  !  it  has  come  to  that.  I  know 
all.  I  will  not  consent  to  destroy  all 
I  love." 

She  then  begged  hard  for  leave  to 
send  the  letter. 

Laure  gave  au  impetuous  refusal. 


i 


WHITE  LIKS. 


267 


"  What  couKl  you  say  to  him  ?  fool- 
ish woman,  don't  you  know  him,  and 
his  vanity  t  When  you  liad  exposed 
yourself  to  him,  and  showed  him  I 
was  nothinp:  worse  tlian  a  liar  who 
had  insulted  him, — do  you  think  he 
would  forgive  me  ?  No  !  this  is  to 
make  light  of  my  love,  —  to  make  me 
waste  the  sacrifice  I  have  made.  I 
feel  that  sacrifice  as  much  as  you  do, 
more  perhaps,  and  I  would  rather  die 
in  a  convent  tiian  waste  that  night  of 
shame  and  agony.  Come,  promise 
me,  no  more  attempts  of  that  kind,  or 
we  are  sisters  no  more,  friends  no 
more,  one  heart  and  one  blood  no 
more." 

The  weaker  nature,  weakened  still 
more  by  ill  health  and  grief,  was  ter- 
rified into  submission,  or  rather  tem- 
porized. 

"  Kiss  me  then,"  said  Josephine, 
"  and  love  me  to  the  end." 

Laure  kissed  her  with  many  sighs, 
but  Josephine  smiled.  Laure  eyed 
her  with  suspicion.  Tiiat  deep  smile. 
What  did  it  mean  ?  She  had  formed 
some  resolution, 
ceive  me  somehow 

From  that  day  Laure  watched  her 
like  a  spy.  Confidence  was  gone  be- 
tween them.     Suspicion  took  its  place. 

Laure  was  right.  The  moment 
Josephine  saw  that  Edouard's  happi- 
ness and  Laure's  were  to  be  sacrificed 
for  her  whom  nothing  could  make 
happv,  the  poor  thing  said  to  herself, 

"I    CAN    DIE." 

Therefore  she  smiled. 

The  doctor  gave  iier  laudanum  :  he 
found  she  could  not  sleep  :  and  he 
thought  it  all -important  that  she 
should  sleep. 

Josephine,  instead  of  taking  these 
small  doses,  saved  tliem  all  up,  se- 
creted them  in  a  phial,  and  so,  from 
the  sleep  of  a  dozen  nights,  collected 
the  eternal  sleep  ;  and  now  she  was 
very  tranquil.  This  young  creature 
that  could  not  bear  to  give  pain  to 
any  one  else  prepared  her  own  death 
with  a  calm  resolution  the  heroes  of 
our  sex  have  not  often  equalled.  It 
was  so  litilc  a  thing  to  licr  to  strike 


She  is  going  to  de- 


Josephinc.  Death  would  save  her 
honor,  would  spare  her  the  frightful 
alternative  of  deceiving  her  husband, 
or  of  telling  him  she  was  another's. 
•'  Poor  Kaynal,"  said  she  to  herself, 
"  it  is  too  cruel  to  tie  him  to  a  woman 
who  can  never  be  to  him  what  he 
deserves.  Laure  would  then  prove 
her  innocence  to  Edouard.  A  few 
tears  for  a  weak,  loving  soul,  and  they 
would  all  be  happy  and  forget  her." 

While  she  was  in  this  mind,  Ray- 
nal  wrote  from  Paris  that  he  was  to 
be  expected  at  any  moment ;  "  And 
this  time,"  he  added,  "  I  stay  a  month." 

Josephine  gave  a  shudder  that  my 
female  readers  can  understand.  Tiiis 
letter  was  the  last  word  in  her  death- 
warrant. 

Her  days  being  now  counted,  and 
her  very  hours  uncertain,  the  mother's 
heart  could  not  leave  the  world  with- 
out putting  her  poor  boy  into  some 
loving  hand,  and  securing  him  kind 
treatment.  And  so  it  happened  that 
she  came  from  her  room  to  open  her 
heart  to  Laure  just  afrer  the  baroness 
went  out  with  those  bitter  words. 
And  when  I  say  open  her  heart,  I  am 
wrong.  Her  fate  was  still  to  conceal 
all  or  a  part.  Laure  was  quick  and 
suspicious.  Laure  would  never  con- 
sent to  her  dying.  All  she  dare  do 
was  to  say  something  to  her  now,  tliat 
poor  Laure  should  understand  when 
she  should  be  gone,  and  say,  "  This 
was  my  poor  lost  sister's  last  request." 

Laure,  then,  stricken  to  the  heart 
by  her  mother's  words,  was  sitting 
weeping  in  the  tapestried  room  when 
Josephine  came  out  to  her,  and  sat 
down  beside  her  with  a  tender  smile, 
and  drew  her  to  iier  bosom. 

"I  am  glad  I  have  found  you  alone. 
You  are  crying,  love  "?  " 

"  Mamma  has  scolded  me  so  ;  and 
she  has  written  to  Edouard  ;  but  you 
have  something  to  say  to  me  1  " 

"  Indeed  I  have,  but  not  now.  It 
is  no  time  to  try  your  courage,  poor 
girl !     You  weep  !  " 

"  I  can  always  find  courage  to  de- 
fend you,  Josephine  " ;  and  she  dried 
her  eves  directlv. 


268 


WHITK    LIi:S. 


"  It  is  not  thnt  kind  of  ronra;,'P, 
Bister.  All  I  ini'  !  was  1  born  to  give 
puiii  ?  " 

"  Speak,  Jo.-c|)liinc!  " 

"  Give  ine  your  luiml.  Bo  linivc, 
—  my  i)oor  Laiirc,  —  tliis  it  is.  I  am 
worse  tliau  I  seem.  I  liavcsoincthin^r 
liere  at  my  heart  tli;it  will  try  the 
poor  doctor's  skill.  And  you  know, 
love,  life  at  the  best  is  but  a  little  can- 
dle that  a  breath  puts  out." 

Laure  said  nothing',  but  she  trem- 
bled and  watched  her  keenly. 

"It  is  about  my  little  Edouard. 
What  would  you  do  with  him  if — if 
anythin;;  .should  liajipcn  to  n»e  ?  " 

''  What  would  I  do  with  him  ?  He 
is  mine.  I  shouhl  be  his  mother. 
Oh  !  what  words  arc  these  !  my  heart ! 
my  heart !  " 

"  No,  Laure  ;  some  day  you  will  be 
married,  and  owe  nil  the  mother  to 
your  children,  and  Edouard  is  not 
ours  only.  He  belongs  to  some  one  I 
have  seemed  imkind  to.  Perhaps  lie 
thinks  me  heartless.  For  I  am  a 
foolish  woman  ;  I  don't  know  how  to 
be  virtuous,  yet  show  a  man  my  heart. 
But  then  he  will  understand  me  and 
forf^ive  me.  Laure,  dear,  30U  will 
write  to  him.  He  will  come  to  you. 
You  will  ^o  tofrcther  to  the  place 
where  I  shall  be  sleepinj.  You  will 
show  him  my  heart.  You  will  tell 
him  all  my  long  love  that  lasted  to  the 
end.  Y<M  need  not  blush  to  tell  him 
all.  I  have  no  right.  Then  you  will 
give  him  his  poor  Josephine's  boy, 
and  you  will  say  to  him,  "  She 
never  loved  but  you  ;  she  gives  you 
all  that  is  left  of  her,  her  child.  She 
prays  you  not  to  give  him  a  bad 
mother." 

Poor  soul !  this  was  hot  one  bit  of 
little,  gentle  jealousy  :  but  it  made 
her  eyes  stream.  She  would  have  put 
out  her  hand  from  the  tomb  to  keep 
her  boy's  Aithcr  single  all  his  life. 

"  O  my  Josc])hine,  —  my  darling  sis- 
ter," cried  Laure,  "  why  do  you  speak 
of  death  ?  Do  you  meditate  a  crime  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  it  was  on  my  heart  to 
say  it :  it  lias  done  me  good." 

"  At  least,  take  mc  to  your  bosom, 


]  my  wcUlK'lovcd,  that  I  may  not  see 
your  tears." 

"There  —  tears?  No,  you  have 
lightened  mv  heart.  Bless  vou!  bless 
you  !  "  ' 

The  sisters  twined  their  bosoms  to- 
gether ill  a  long  gentle  embrace.  You 
might  have  taken  them  for  twonngclu 
'  that   flowed  together  in    one  love,  — 
but  for  the  tears. 

They  remained  silently  one  for 
some  minutes.  Then  they  went  to 
Josephine's  room.  Laure,  however, 
was  soon  summoned  out  by  the  bar- 
oness. 

She  came,  full  of  misgivings,  but 
the  mood  of  the  baroness  had  clumgcd. 
A  sly  benevolence  lurked  now  in  her 
features. 

"  Sit  down  by  mc  on  the  sofa. 
Now,  mademoiselle,  confess  !  There 
has  been  a  tiff  between  you  and 
Edouard  :  a  lover's  quarrel  ?  " 

"  Y — y — yes,  mamma." 

"  And  if  I  make  it  up  for  you  ?  " 

"  Not  for  the  world  !  —  not  for  the 
world  !  " 

"  Nonsen.se,  child  !  " 

"MoNsiKiR  KiviEUK,"  was  an- 
nounced by  the  new  servant. 

Laure  started  up  to  fly. 

"  Sit  still,"  said  the  baroness,  im- 
peratively. 

Ivlouard  came    in,    wan    and  agi- 
'  tatcd. 

The  baroness  waved  him  to  a  seat, 
and  took  one  lierself,  leaving  Luurc 
on  the  sofa. 

The  effrontery  of  Laure  in  facing 
him  before  her  mother  disgusted  and 
enraged  Edouard.  "  She  will  rue 
it,"  said  he,  bitterly. 

"  You  don't  see  Laure,"  said  the 
baroness,  quietly. 

He  hail  not  taken  any  notice  of 
l»er. 

Edouard  stammered  some  excuse, 
rose,  ami  bowed  t<j  Laure. 

Now  in  j)crforming  this  cold  saluta- 
tion he  caught  sight  of  her  face  :  it 
was  pule,  anil  her  eyes  red.  She  was 
unhapj)y  then. 

"  Monsieur  Riviere,"  said  the  baron- 
ess, ceremoniously  atid  slowly,    "  vou 


WHITE  LIES. 


2G9 


have    not    honored  us  with   a  visit 
lately." 

"  iExcuse  me,  madame,  I  liave  been 
much  occupied." 

"  Familiar  as  you  were  in  the  house, 
and  esteemed  by  us,  you  must  have  a 
motive  for  abandoning  us  so  suddenly. 
Mai<e  me  your  confidante.  What  is 
your  motive  ?     Is  it  Laure's  fault  1  " 

"  Yes,  mailame." 

"  O  yes,  mamma,  it  is  my  fault. 
My  temper  !  "  and  she  cast  a  piteous 
looii  of  supplication  on  Edouard. 

"  Do  not  interfere,  Laure  :  let  me 
hear  M.  Riviere." 

"  Madame,  my  temper  and  Madem- 
oiselle Laure's  could  not  accord." 

"  Why,  her  temper  is  charming;  it 
is  joyous,  equal,  and  gentle." 

"  You  misunderstand  me,  madame ; 
I  do  not  reproach  Mademoiselle 
Laure.    It  is  I  who  am  to  blame." 

"  For  what  ?  "  inquired  the  baron- 
ess, dryly. 

"  For  not  being  able  to  make  her 
love  me." 

"  O,  that  is  it !  She  did  not  love 
you  1  " 

"  Ask  herself,  madame." 

"  Laure,"  said  the  baroness,  her  eye 
now  beginning  to  twinkle,  "  are  you 
really  guilty  of  such  a  want  of  dis- 
crimination ?  Did  n't  you  love  mon- 
sieur ?  " 

"  No,  mamma.  I  did  not  love 
Monsieur   Edouard." 

Edouard  groaned. 

"  You  tell  me  that,  and  vou  are  cry- 
ing!" 

"  She  is  crying,  madame  11  ! !  " 

"Why,  you  see  she  is.  Come,  I 
see  how  this  will  end." 

"  Where  are  you  going,  mamma  1  " 

"  To  my  other  daughter.  Alas  ! 
her  case  is  worse  than  yours.  Mon- 
sieur Edouard,  forgive  me,  if  I  leave 
you  a  moment  with  the  enemy.  I 
hope,  in  spite  of  her,  to  find  you  ex- 
tant on  my  return." 

She  went  off  with  knowing  little 
nods  into  Josephine's  room. 

Dead  silence. 

"  Monsieur,"  began  Laure,  in  a 
faint  whisper. 


"  Mademoiselle  !  " 

"  I  thank  you  humbly  for  your  gen- 
erosity. But  you  were  always  gener- 
ous. I  felt  you  would  not  betray 
me." 

"  Mademoiselle,  your  secret  belongs 
to  you,  not  to  others.  I  —  Curse  on 
my  weakness  !    Adieu  !  " 

He  moved  to  go. 

She  bowed  her  head  with  a  de- 
spairing moan. 

It  took  him  by  the  heart  and  held 
him.  He  hesitated,  then  came  to- 
wards  her. 

"  I  see  you  are  soitv  for  what  yon 
have  done  to  me  who  loved  you  so,  — 
whom  you  loved.  O  yes,  do  not 
deny  it,  Laure  ;  there  was  a  time  you 
loved  me.  And  that  makes  it  worse  : 
to  have  given  me  such  sweet  hopes, 
only  to  crush  both  them  and  me. 
And  is  not  this  cruel  of  you  ?  — even 
now,  to  weep  so  and  let  me  see  your 
penitence,  —  when  it  is  too  late  ! " 

"  Alas  !  how  can  I  help  my  regrets  ? 
I  have  insulted  so  good  a  friend." 

There  was  a  sad  silence.  Then,  as 
he  looked  at  her,  her  looks  belied  the 
charge  her  own  lips  had  made  against 
herself. 

A  light  seemed  to  burst  on  Ed- 
ouard from  that  high-minded,  sorrow- 
stricken  face. 

"  Tell  me  it  is  false !  "  he  cried. 

She  iiid  her  face  in  her  hands,  — 
woman's  instinct  to  avoid  being  read. 

"  Tell  me  you  were  misled,  then, 
—  fascinated,  perverted,  —  but  that 
your  heart  returned  to  me.  Clear 
yourself  of  deliberate  deceit,  and  I 
will  believe  and  thank  you  on  my 
knees." 

"  Heaven  have  pity  on  us  !  "  cried 
poor  Laure. 

"  On  us  !  Thank  you  for  saying 
on  us.  See  now,  you  have  not  gained 
happiness  by  destroying  mine.  One 
word  :  do  vou  love  that  man  ?  — 
that    Dujardin  1  " 

"  You  know  I  do  not." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that ;  since  his  life 
is  forfeited  ;  if  he  escapes  my  friend 
Haynal,  he  shall  not  escape  me  !  " 

Laure  uttered  a  cry  of  terror. 


270 


WHITE   LIF.S. 


"  Hush  !  not  so  loud.  The  life  of 
Camillc !  ( *h  !  if  he  were  lo  die, 
what  were  to  Itcrome  of —  (),  jmiy 
do  not  ^peak  st)  lomi  !  " 

"  Own  then  tiiat  vou  (/«  hne  him," 
yelled  IMouard  ;  "  j^ivc  nic  truth,  if 
you  have  no  love  to  give.  Own  that 
you  love  him,  and  he  shall  lie  safe. 
It  is  myself  I  will  kill,  for  heiug  sueh 
a  slave  as  to  love  you  still !  " 

Laure's  fortitude  j;ave  way. 

"  I  cannot  iiear  it!  "  she  cried,  dc- 
spairinjil y  ;  "  it  i>  lieyond  my  stren^^th  ! 
Edouard,  swear  to  me  you  will  keep 
what  I  tell  you  secret  as  the  grave  ? 
—  hush  !  here  they  come." 

The  haroness  came  smiling  out, 
and  Josephine's  wan,  anxious  face 
was  seen  liehin<l  her. 

"  Well,"  said  the  haroness,  "  is  the 
war  at  an  end  ?  What,  are  we  still 
silent  ?  Let  me  try  then  what  I  can 
do.     PMouard,  lend  me  your  hand." 

While  Edouard  hesitated,, Josephine 
cla.^ped  her  hands  and  mutely  snppli- 
cated  him  to  consent.  Her  sad  face, 
and  the  liiought  of  how  often  she  had 
stood  his  friend,  shook  his  resolution. 
He  held  out  his  hand  slowly  and  un- 
willingly :  for  what  was  the  use  taking 
hands  when  hearts  were  estranged  7 

"  There  is  my  hand,"  he  muttered. 

"  And  here  is  mine,  mamma,"  said 
Laure,  smiling  to  please  her. 

Oh  !  the  ini.xtnre  of  feeling,  when 
her  soft  warm  jialin  j)re>sed  his.  How 
the  delicious  sense  hatHcd  and  mysti- 
fied the  cold  judgment. 

Josephine  smiled.  It  was  a  res- 
pite. 

While  the  young  lovers  yet  thrilled 
at  each  other's  touch,  yet  could  not 
look  one  another  in  the  face,  a  sudden 
clash  of  horses'  feet  was  heard. 

"That  is  Colonel  IJayiial,"  said 
Josephine,  with  unnatural  calmness. 
"  I  expected  him  to-day." 

The  haroness  was  at  the  side  win- 
dow in  a  moment. 

"  It  is  he  !  —  it  is  he  !  " 

She  hurried  down  to  embrace  her 
son. 

Josephine  went  withf)ut  a  word  to 
her  own  room.    Laure  followed  her 


the  next  moment.  But  in  that  one 
moment  she  worked  magic. 

She  glidc<i  u|>  to  Kdotianl,  and 
looked  hiui  full  iu  the  face.  Not  the 
sad,  fk'pn'ssc<l,  guilty  lookini:,  humhlc 
Laure  of  a  moment  tuforc,  hut  the 
old,  high-s|)irited,  and  somewhat  im- 
jK'rious  girl. 

"  You  have  shown  yourself  nohic 
this  day.  I  am  going  to  trust  you  as 
only  the  nohle  are  trusted.  Stay  in 
the  house  till  I  can  speak  to  you  ! " 

She  was  gone,  and  .>;omethini,'  leaped 
within  Edouanl's  hosom,  and  a  Hood 
of  light  seemed  to  hurst  in  on  him. 
Yet  he  saw  no  object  clearly  :  but  he 
saw  light. 

Josejihine  went  to  her  room,  opened 
a  drawer,  and  took  out  a  little  jihial. 
She  knelt  down,  and  was  in  the  act  of 
conveying  the  j)liial  to  Jier  lips  wlien 
the  handle  of  the  door  Wivs  turned, 
and  as  the  instinct  of  concealment  was 
stronger  even  than  the  desire  of  death, 
she  liid  the  phial  swiftly  in  her  bosom, 
and  rose  hivstily  from  her  knees.  But 
this  latter  action  was  surprised  l)y 
Laure. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Josephine, 
on  your  knees  1  " 

"  I  have  a  great  trial  to  go  through 
to-day,"  was  the  hesitating  answer. 

Laure  said  nothing.  She  turned 
paler.  She  is  deceiving  me  again, 
thought  she,  and  Laure  sat  down  full 
of  bitterness  and  terror  ;  and,  affecting 
not  to  watch  Joscj)hinc,  watched  her. 

"  Go  and  tell  them  I  am  coming, 
Laure." 

"  No,  Josephine,  I  will  not  leave 
you  till  this  terrible  meeting  is  over." 

"  Let  us  come  then,"  said  Jose- 
phine, doggedly,  "  and  encounter  it 
at  once." 

"  Yes,  Josephine,  hand  in  hand 
as  we  used  to  go,  when  our  hearts 
were  one." 

Josephine  arranged  her  hair  in  the 
glass ;  woman  to  her  last  gasp.  A 
deep  voice  was  now  heard  in  the  sit- 
ting-room. 

Josc|itiine  and  Laure  went  to  the 
door,  paused  irresolutely  a  moment, 
then  entered  the  tapestried  room. 


WHITE    LIES. 


271 


Eaynal  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  : 
the  baroness's  hand  iu  his.  I']douard 
was  not  there. 

Colonel  Kaynal  had  given  him  a 
strange  look,  and  said  :  "  What,  you 
here  !  "  in  a  tone  of  voice  that  was 
intolerable. 

Raynal  came  to  meet  the  sisters. 
He  saluted  Josephine  on  the  brow. 

"  You  are  pale,  my  wife  ;  and  how 
cold  her  hand  is  !  " 

"  She  has  been  ill  this  month  past," 
said  Laurc. 

"You  look  ill,  too,  Mademoiselle 
Laure." 

"  Never  mind,"  cried  the  baroness, 
joyously,  "  you  will  cheer  them  all 
up." 

"  Yes,"  said  Raynal,  moodily. 

"  How  long  do  you  stay  this  time, 
—  a  day?" 

"  A  month,  mother." 

The  doctor  now  joined  the  party, 
and  friendly  greetings  passed  between 
him  and  Raynal. 

But  erelong  somehow  all  became 
conscious  this  was  not  a  joyful  meet- 
ing. The  baroness  could  not  alone 
sustain  the  spirits  of  the  party,  and 
soon  even  she  began  to  notice  that 
Raynal's  replies  were  short,  and  that 
his  manner  was  distrait  and  gloomy. 
The  sisters  saw  this,  too,  and  trem- 
bled for  what  might  be  coming. 

The  gloom  deepened.  At  last 
Raynal  whispered  :  — 

"  Josephine,  I  want  to  speak  to 
you  alone." 

The  baroness  did  not  hear,  but  by 
his  whispering  she  divined  he  would 
speak  in  private  to  his  wife. 

She  gave  the  doctor  a  look,  and 
made  an  excuse  for  going  down  stairs 
to  her  own  room.  As  she  was  go- 
ing, Josephine  went  to  her. 

"  Mother,  you  have  not  kissed  me 
to-day." 

"  There  !    Bless  you,  my  darling  !  " 

Raynal  looked  at  Laure.  She  saw 
she  must  go :  but  she  lingered,  and 
sought  her  sister's  eye :  it  avoided 
her.  ("  She  is  deceiving  me. "J 
Laurc  ran  to  the  doctor,  who  was 
just  going  out  of  the  door. 


"  0  doctor  ! ''  slie  whispered,  trem- 
bling, "  don't  go  beyond  the  door. 
I  found  her  praying.  My  mind  mis- 
gives me." 

"  What  is  she  going  to  do  1  " 

"  Tell  her  husband  —  or  something 
worse." 

"  What  ?  Speak  !  —  what  do  you 
fear  1  " 

"I  am  afraid  to  say  all  I  dread. 
She  could  not  be  so  calm  if  she 
meant  to  live.     Be  near !  as  I  shall." 

She  left  the  old  man  trembling, 
and  went  back  to  Raynal.  She  in- 
terrupted them  just  as  he  was  saying 
to  Josephine :  — 

"  I  was  a  little  surprised  at  your 
reception  of  me,  but  it  was  my  own 
fault." 

"  Excuse  rae,"  said  Laure,  "  I  only 
came  to  ask  Josephine  if  she  wants 
anything." 

"  No!  —  yes!  —  a  glass  of  eau 
Sucre. " 

Laure  mixed  it  for  her.  While 
doing  this,  she  noticed  that  Jose- 
phine shunned  her  eye,  but  Raynal 
gazed  gently  and  with  an  air  of  pity 
on  her. 

She  retired  slowly  into  Josephipsj's 
bedroom. 

"  Well,"  said  Raynal,  with  a  heavy 
sigh,  "  first  let  us  speak  of  yoiT 
health,  — it  alarms  mo  ;  and  of  your 
apparent  sadness,  which  I  do  not  un- 
derstand. You  have  no  news  from 
the  Rhine,  have  you  ?  " 

"Monsieur!" 

"  Do  not  call  me  monsieur ;  nor 
look  so  frightened.  Call  me  youf 
friend.     I  am  your  sincere  friend." 

"  O  yes  !  you  always  were." 

"Thank  you!  You  will  give  me 
a  dearer  title  before  we  part  this 
time." 

"  Yes,"  said  Josephine,  in  a  low 
whisper.  And  she  took  a  phial  from 
her  bosom,  and  poured  the  contents 
into  the  glass  of  eau  sucre. 

"  What  is  that?  "  asked  Raynal. 

"A  soothing  draught.  I  sufter, 
monsieur." 

"Call  me  Jean." 

"  If  you  please.     I  suffer,    Jean ; 


wmn:  mi:s. 


more  than  I  can    l>cnr  :    litis  sootlies 
niv  pain." 

"  I'oor  soul  !  Knt  nit  down  and 
calm  yoiirsi'ir,  for  1  liavc  bomctliing 
VL-ry  scrions  to  say." 

Josci)hine  took  the  scat  with  some 
ruliu-(ancc.  She  cyud  tlic  t;lass  wist- 
fully. After  all,  she  cuuKl  get  to  it 
at  any  moment. 

liaynal  hesitated. 

"  First,  have  you  forgiven  mc 
frifxiitening  you  so  that  night?  " 

••  Yes." 

"  It  was  a  sliock  to  me  too:  I  hkc 
tiie  hoy.  She  professed  to  love  him, 
and,  to  own  the  truth,  I  loathe  all 
treachery  and  deceit.  If  I  had  done 
a  murder,  I  would  own  it.  A  lie 
doubles  every  crime.  IJut  I  took 
heart ;  we  are  all  selfish,  we  men  : 
of  the  two  sisters  one  was  all  innocence 
and  good  faith  ;  and  she  was  the  one  I 
iiad  chosen." 

At  these  words  Josephine  rose  like 
a  statue  moving,  and  juit  out  her 
hand  to  the  cup,  and  in  one  moment 
she  would  have  drank,  and  sat  pa- 
tient, attending  to  Kaynal  with  death 
coursing  through  her  veins. 

But  between  her  and  the  king  of 
terrors,  into  whose  arms  she  was  glid- 
ing, was  a  danger  slic  dareil  not  i'ace. 

A  wa-;p  was  hovering  riglit  over  the 
sugared  death. 

She  drew  liack  hastily,  with  a  look 
of  dismay.  Kayiud  took  uj)  a  jiaper- 
knife  with  zeal. 

"  O,  do  not  kill  it,  poor  thing! 
The  window  is  open :  make  it  fly- 
away." 

IJaynal  drove  away  the  wasp  with 
liis  liatidkereliief,  and  Josephine 
stretched  her  hand  out  to  the  glass, 
and,  fixing  her  eye  on  Raynal  to  sec 
whetlier  he  would  let  her,  raised  it 
slowly  to  her  lip.s. 

Meantime,  IJaynal,  witli  his  eyes 
ploomily  lowered,  said  in  a  voice  full 
of  strange  solemnity  :  — 

"  I  went  to  the  army  of  the  Rhine." 

Josephine  put  down  the  glass  di- 
rectly, though  without  removing  her 
hand  from  it. 

"  I  see  you  understand  me,  and  ap- 


prove. Yes  !  I  saw  thaL  your  sister 
would  be  dishonored,  and  I  went  to 
the  army  and  I  saw  Dujardin." 

"Ah!  what  did  you  say  to  him?" 
an<l  she  f|uivered  all  over. 

"  I  TOI.I>  Ill.M   AI.I,." 

"  You  — told  him  all?" 

"  Hush,  Joscjihine,  don't  speak  so 
loud,  and  come  this  way  ;  there,  don't 
fiddle  with  that  glass,  my  poor  soul. 
Drink  it,  or  leave  it  alone  :  for  I  want 
all  your  attention,  all  your  aid,  all 
your  excuses." 

lie  took  the  glass  out  of  her  patient 
hand,  and,  with  a  furtive  look  at  the 
bedroom  door,  drew  her  away  to  the 
other  end  of  tlic  room. 

"I  taxed  Dujardin  with  her  seduc- 
tion ;  he  did  lujt  deny  it.  I  told  him 
he  must  marry  her  !  " 

"Yes." 

"  He  refused.  I  challenged  him. 
He  accepted." 

Josephine  shuddered,  and  shrank 
from  liaynal. 

"  Do  not  alarm  yourself.  "\Ve 
never  met." 

"Ah!  thank  Heaven!" 

"  O  no,  that  sin  was  spared  me : 
indeed,  before  we  parted,  tlic  poor  fel- 
low consented.  I  felt  happy  then.  I 
thought  I  had  saved  the  honor  of  our 
family.  My  wife,  I  have  a  favor  to 
ask  you.  I  am  in  distress,  and  em- 
barrassment. And  you  can  do  it : 
for  he  was  indifferent  to  you,  compar- 
atively. And  I  have  not  the  courage 
—  oh,  I  should  feel  like  a  thief,  like  a 
coward,  betbre  her.     WiWyoit?" 

"  What  ?  "  gasped  Josephine.  "  You 
confuse,  you  jierplex  me  !  O,  what 
does  this  terrible  preparation  mean  ?  " 

"  It  means  that  I  shall  never  save 
the  honor  of  your  house  now." 

"  Oh  !  is  that  all  !  thank  Heaven  !  " 
She  did  not  know  what  she  was  say- 
ing. 

"  He  will  never  marry  Laurc  ;  he 
will  never  see  her  more." 

"  I  see  !  he  told  you  he  would  nev- 
er come  to  Bcaurepaire.  He  did 
well." 

"Alas!  no!  that  is  not  it.  I  tell 
vou  he  consented." 


WHITE   LIES. 


273 


"  To  what  ?    In  Heaven's  name !  " 

"  To  marry  licr.  He  shook  hands 
with  me,  the  tears  in  his  eyes.  All ! 
I  understand  the  teai-s  in  those  lion 
eyes  now,  now  that  it  is  too  hue." 

Raynal  jrroaned. 

"  Wife,  I  was  to  attack  the  bastion. 
He  knew  it  was  mined.  He  took  ad- 
vantage of  my  back  being  turned. 
He  led  his  men  out  of  the  trendies  ; 
he  assaulted  the  bastion  at  the  head 
of  his  brigade.     He  took  it." 

"  Ah !  it  was  noble  :  it  was  like 
him!" 

"  The  bastion,  undermined  by  the 
enemy,  was  blown  into  the  air,  and 
Dujardin  is  dead." 

"  Dead  !  " 

"  Hush  !  I  hear  Laurc  at  the  door  ! 
hush  !  He  took  my  place,  and  is 
dead.  Swallowed  up  in  flames,  and 
crushed  to  atoms  under  the  ruins." 

"Oh!  — oh!— oh!  — oh!" 

Her  whole  body  gave  way,  and 
bowed  like  a  tree  falling  under  the 
axe.  She  sank  slowly  to  her  knees, 
and  low  moans  of  agony  broke  from 
her  at  intervals. 


'  Is  it  not  terrible 


he  cried. 


She  did  not  hear  him  nor  see  him. 

"  Dead  !  —  dead  !  —  dead  !  " 

"  War !  I  never  felt  vou  till  that 
hour." 

"  Dead !  —  ah  !  —  pity  !  —  the 
glass  ! " 

She  stretched  her  hands  out,  wild- 
ly. Raynal,  with  a  face  full  of  con- 
cern, ran  to  the  table  and  got  the 
glass.  She  crawled  on  her  knees  to 
meet  it,  he  stirred  it,  and  brought  it 
quickly  to  her  hand. 

"  There,  my  poor  soul !  " 

Now,  as  their  hands  met,  Laure 
threw  herself  on  the  cup,  and  snatched 
it  with  fury  from  them  both.  She 
was  white  as  ashes,  and  her  eyes,  su- 
pernaturally  largo,  glared  on  llaynal 
with  terror. 

"  Madman  ! " 

He  glared  back  on  her  :  what  did 
this  mean  ?  Their  eyes  were  fixed 
on  each  other  like  combatants  for  life 
and  death  :  they  did  not  see  that  the 
room  was  tilling  with  people,  that  the 
1 2  * 


doctor  was  only  on  the  other  side  the 
table,  and  that  the  baroness  and  Ed- 
ouard  were  at  the  door,  and  all  look- 
ing wonder-struck  at  this  strange 
sight,  — Josephine  on  her  knees,  and 
those  two  facing  each  other,  white,  with 
dilating  eyes  :  the  glass  between  them. 

But  what  was  that  to  the  horror, 
when  the  next  moment  the  patient 
Josephine  started  to  her  feet,  and, 
standing  in  tiie  midst,  tore  her  hair 
by  handfuls  out  of  her  head. 

"  Ah  !  you  snatch  the  kind  poison 
from  me  !  " 

"  Poison !  " 

"  Poison  !  !  " 

"  Poison  !  ! !  " 

"  Ah  !  you  won't  let  me  die. 
Curse  you  all !  —  curse  you  !  I  never 
had  my  own  way  in  anything.  I  was 
always  a  slave  and  a  fool.  I  have 
murdered  the  man  I  love,  —  I  love  ! 
Yes,  my  husband,  do  you  hear,  the 
man  I  love  !  " 

"  Hush  !  daughter,  —  respect  my 
gray  hairs  — " 

"  Your  gray  hairs  !  You  are  not 
so  old  in  years  as  I  am  in  agony.  So 
this  is  your  love,  Laure.  Ah  !  you 
won't  let  me  die, — won't  you? 
Thev  1  'll  do  worse,  —  I  'll 
tell!" 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

"  Enough  of  baseness  and  lies ! 
From  this  moment,  honor  to  whom 
honor  is  due,  shame  to  whom  shame. 
Ah  !  there  is  Edouard.  I  am  glad  of 
it.  He,  who  is  dead, — and  I  will 
follow  him,  I  will!  I  will,  —  he  was 
my  betrothed.  He  struggled,  wound- 
ed, bleeding,  to  my  feet.  He  found 
me  married.  News  came  of  my  hus- 
band's death,  —  I  married  my  be- 
trothed." 

"  Married  him  !  my  daughter  ?  " 
"  Ah,  here  is  my  poor  mother.  And 
she  kissed  me  so  kindly,  just  now,  — 
she  will  kiss  me  no  more.  Oh  !  1  am 
not  ashamed  of  marrying  him.  I  am 
only  ashamed  of  the  cowardice  that 
dared  not   do   it   in    face   of  all   the 


271 


WllITK   LIKS. 


world.  Wc  liaJ  scnrcc  been  happy  a  ' 
fortnight,  wlieii  ii  letter  came  liuin 
Culoiiel  Uuynal.  He  was  ulive.  1 
drove  my  true  liusl)antl  awiiy,  wreteh 
that  1  wiui.  I  tried  to  <lo  my  duty  to 
rav  legal  hushaml.  He  was  my  bene- 
factor. I  thou^rht  it  was  my  duty, — 
was  it?  I  don't  know.  I  have  lost 
the  sense  of  right  and  wrong.  I 
turned  from  a  loving  creature  to  a  lie. 
He  who  had  scattereil  i»enelits  on  nic 
and  all  this  house,  he  whom  it  was 
too  little  to  love,  he  ought  to  have 
been  adored,  —  this  man  came  here  one 
night  to  his  wife,  proud,  joyous,  warm- 
hearted. He  found  a  cradle,  and  two 
women  watching  it.  Now,  Edouard, 
now  monsieur,  do  you  see  that  life  is 
impossible  to  me  ?  One  bravely  ac- 
cused herself.  She  was  innocent. 
One  swooned  away  like  a  guilty  cow- 
ard." 

"Ah!" 

"  Yes,  Edouard,  you  shall  not  be 
miserable  like  me.  She  was  guilty. 
You  do  not  understand  me  yet,  my 
poor  mother,  —  she  was  so  happy  this 
morning,  —  I  was  the  liar,  the  cow- 
ard, the  douljle-faced  wife,  the  mis- 
erable mother  that  denied  her  child. 
Now  will  you  let  me  die  ?  Now  do 
j-ou  see  tliat  I  can't  and  won't  live 
upon  shame  and  despair.  Ah,  Mon- 
sieur Raynal,  my  dear  friend,  you 
were  always  generous  :  you  will  pity 
and  kill  me.  I  have  dislionored  the 
name  you  gave  me  to  keep  :  I  am 
neither  De  Beaurepaire  nor  Raynal. 
Do  pray  kill  me,  monsieur, — Jean, 
do  pray  release  me  from  my  life !  " 

And  she  crawled  to  his  knees  and 
embraced  them,  and  kissed  his  hand, 
and  pleaded  more  piteously  for  death, 
than  others  have  begged  for  life. 

Raynal  stood  like  a  rock  :  he  was 
pale,  and  drew  his  breath  audibly  : 
but  not  a  word.  Then  came  a  sight 
scarce  less  terrible  than  Josephine's 
despair.  The  baroness,  looking  and 
moving  twenty  years  older  tlian  an 
hour  before,  tottered  across  the  room 
to  Raynal. 

"  Sir,  you  whom  I  have  cillcd  my 
Bon,  but  whom  I  will  never  presume 


so  to  call  again.  I  thought  I  had 
lived  long  enough  never  to  have  to 
blush  again.  1  li>ved  yon,  monsieur. 
1  prayed  every  day  for  you.  But  she 
wlio  tfos  my  daughter  was  not  of  my 
mind.  Monsieur,  1  have  never  knelt 
but  to  God  and  to  my  king,  and  I 
kneel  to  you ;  forgive  us,  sir ;  forgive 
us!" 

She  tried  to  go  down  on  her  knees. 
He  raised  her  w  ith  hii  strong  arm,  but 
he  could  not  speak.  She  turned  on 
the  others. 

"  So  this  is  the  secret  you  were  hid- 
ing from  me !  This  secret  has  not 
killed  you  all.  Oh !  I  shall  not  live 
under  its  sliame  so  long  as  you  have. 
Chateau  of  Beaurepaire,  —  nest  of 
trcjison,  ingratitude,  and  immodesty, 
—  I  loathe  you  as  nmch  as  once  I 
loved  you.  I  will  go  and  hide  my 
head,  and  die  elsewhere." 

At  last  Raynal  sf>oke. 

"  Stay,  madame  I "  said  he,  in  a 
voice  wliose  depth  and  dignity  wero 
such  that  it  seemed  impossible  to  dis- 
obey it.  "  It  was  sudden,  —  I  was 
shaken,  —  but  I  am  myself  again,  I 
see  it  all  now." 

"  O,  show  some  pity !  "  cried 
Laure. 

"I  shall  be  just." 

There  was  a  long,  trembling  si- 
lence, and  during  that  silence  and 
terrible  agitation  one  figure  stood 
firm  among  those  cpiaking,  beating 
hearts,  like  a  rock  with  the  waves 
breaking  round  it,  —  the  w.\N  of 
I'KiNCii'LE  among  the  creatures  of 
impulse. 

"  Rise,  Madame  Dujardin,  sit  there." 

He  placed  her,  more  dead  than  alive, 
in  a  large  arm-chair. 

"  Mother  1  " 

"  What  I  you  call  me  mother  still  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  trifle  too  hard  upon  the 
weak.  I  must  be  neither  harsh  nor 
weak,  —  I  must  lie  just. 

"  Madame  Dujardin,  you  are  an 
honest  woman.  Hut  you  are  not 
open.  Your  fiult  has  been  cowardice 
and  want  of  truth.  You  should  have 
told  me  long  ago.  What  had  you  to 
1  fear  ?     I  was  your  friend,  and  not  a 


WHITE  LIES. 


275 


selfish  frijTid.  I  was  not  cnou(i;li  in 
love  with  you  to  cut  your  tliroat :  I 
don't  hold  with  that  sort  of  love.  If 
you  liad  only  trusted  me,  I  would 
have  saved  you  all  this.  You  doubted 
me  without  cause.  I  am  angry  with 
you,  and  I  forgive  you.  She  does 
not  even  hear  me." 

"  0  yes,  monsieur,  my  sister  hears 
you.  See  tlie  tears  streaming  from 
her  poor  eyes." 

"  Poor  thing  !  I  have  some  little 
comfort  in  store  for  her.  First,  this 
unfortunate  marriage  of  ours  can  be 
annulled." 

There  was  a  general  exclamation, 
except  from  Josephine. 

"  We  have  only  to  consent  to  do 
away  with  it.  The  notary  told  me  so  in 
my  ear  on  our  wedding-day  :  and  that 
is  what  tears  me  when  I  think  if  she 
could  but  have  been  frank  with  me. 
—  Ten  thousand  devils  !  that  marriage 
shall  be  annulled  to-morrow.  But  I 
must  not  stop  there.  I  have  others  to 
be  just  to.  If  I  stand  here  a  living 
man,  to  whom  do  I  owe  it  I  To  Colo- 
nel Dujardin,  who  gave  his  life  for 
me.  To  risk  life  for  a  comrade  is 
nothing;  but  to  sacrifice  it  without 
hope,  as  he  did  for  me,  is  verj'  differ- 
ent. What,  when  he  had  but  to  fold 
his  arms,  and  let  me  die,  and  by  m}' 
death  get  the  woman  he  loved;  he 
gave  up  life  and  love  for  me,  and 
for  his  own  heroic  sense  of  honor." 

At  these  words  Josephine  sobbed 
wildly. 

The  just  man  warmed  :  — 

"  I  have  lived  with  heroes ;  I  have 
fought  with  the  brave  against  the 
brave,  and  I  say  this  was  a  godlike 
action.  The  world  has  never  seen  a 
greater.  If  he  stood  there,  and  asked 
me  for  all  the  blood  in  my  body,  I 
would  have  given  it  him  at  a  word. 
He  is  dead !  but  his  widow  and  his 
child  are  my  care,  and  no  other  man's. 
To-morrow  I  shall  be  in  Paris,  and 
your  marriage  with  Dujardin  shall  be 
confirmed.  Ah  !  weak  but  lofty  crea- 
ture. I  see  by  your  eyes  that  this 
brightens  cveu  your  despair.  You 
thought   all   was   lost,  —  no  !     Jose- 


phine, all  is  never  lost  when  honor  is 
saved." 

"  Bless  you  !  bless  you  !  my  boy 
iilesses  you  by  his  poor  mother's  lips  ; 
bless — "  She  sank  feebly  back  in 
her  chair  in  a  vain  endeavor  to  tliank 
him  in  the  midst  of  her  despair. 

"  What !  you  are  grateful  to  me, 
then  do  something  to  please  me. 
Words  go  for  little  with  me." 

The  poor  soul  revived  a  little  wlien 
he  told  her  she  could  do  something 
for  him. 

"  Promise  me  something." 

"I  will." 

"Not  to  attempt  self-destruction 
again.  Come,  promise  me  upon  your 
honor." 

"  I  promise,"  sighed  Josephine. 

"  Now,  mother,  and  you,  Edouard, 
we  will  leave  her  with  the  doctor  and 
her  sister.  Come,"  and  he  took  them 
all  out  of  the  room  sharp.  Looking 
round  he  caught  sight  of  Edouard's 
face  ;  it  was  radiant  with  joy.  Ray- 
nal  started  at  sight  of  it,  —  then  he 
reflected  and  muttered  :  "  O,  ay  !  I 
see ! " 

Such  is  life. 

I  drop  the  curtain  on  the  sad  scene 
that  followed  in  the  room  he  left :  no 
words  could  give  any  idea  of  Jose- 
pliine's  sorrow.  Fear  and  misgivings, 
and  the  burning  sense  of  deceit  gnaw- 
ing an  honorable  heart,  were  gone. 
Grief  reigned  alone. 

The  marriage  was  annulled  before 
the  mayor;  and  three  days  afterwards 
Raynai,  by  his  influence,  turned  a 
balanced  scale,  and  got  the  consum- 
mated marriage  formally  allowed  in 
Paris. 

With  a  delicacy  for  which  one 
would  hardly  have  given  him  credit, 
he  never  came  near  Beaurepaire  till 
all  this  was  settled ;  but  he  brought 
the  document  from  Paris  that  made 
Josephine  the  Widow  Dujardin,  and 
her  boy  the  heir  of  Beaurepaire  ;  and 
the  moment  she  was  really  Madame 
Dujardin  he  avoided  her  no  longer : 
and  he  became  a  comfort  to  her,  in- 
stead of  a  terror. 


270 


wiini;  LiKS. 


The  dissolution  of  the  marriape  was 
n  pri'iit  tic  iK'twtni  tlicin.  So  iiuicli 
that,  seeing  how  niucli  she  looked  ii[) 
to  Kaynal,  the  doetor  said  one  day  to 
the  baroness  :  "  If  I  know  anythinp 
of  human  nature,  they  will  marry 
ajrain,  provided  none  of  you  pive  her 
ft  hint  which  way  her  heart  is  turn- 
in?." 

They  wlio  have  habituated  them- 
selves "to  live  for  others  ean  suffer  as 
well  as  do  great  things.  Josephine 
kept  alive.  A  passion  such  as  hers, 
in  a  selfish  nature,  must  have  killed 
her. 

Even  as  it  was.  she  often  said, 
"  It  is  hard  to  live." 

Then  they  used  to  talk  to  her  of  her 
boy.  Would  she  leave  him  —  Ca- 
mille's  boy  —  without  a  mother  ? 
And  these  words  were  never  spoken 
to  her  quite  in  vain. 

Her  mother  forgave  lier,  and  loved 
her  as  before.  Who  could  be  angry 
with  her  long  ?  The  air  was  no  lon- 
ger heavy  with  lies.  Wretched  as  she 
was,  she  breathed  lighter.  Joy  and 
hope  were  gone.  Sorrowful  peace 
was  coming.  When  the  heart  comes 
to  this,  nothing  but  Time  can  cure ; 
but  what  will  not  Time  do  ?  O, 
what  wounds  he  has  healed !  His 
cures  are  incredible. 

Yet  are  there  a  few  hearts  in  nature 
EG  faithful  that  they  carry  their  early 
wound  to  their  late  graves. 

Who  then  can  ])redict  the  fate  of 
Josephine  Dujavdin  1  the  woman  of 
women,  —  the  disingenuous,  the  true- 
lieartcd  ? 

It  was  about  a  fortniirht  later.  The 
little  party  sat  one  day,  peaceful  but 
silent  and  sad,  in  the  Pleasance,  under 
the  great  oak. 

'I'wo  soldiers  came  in  at  the  gate. 
They  walked  feebly,  for  one  was  lame, 
and  leaned  uprm  the  other,  who  was 
]):de  and  weak,  and  leaned  upon  a 
stick. 

"  Soldiers,"  said  Ravnal,  "and  in- 
valided." 

"  Give  them  food  and  wine,"  said 
Josephine. 


Lanre  went  towards  tliem,  but  she 
hail  scarcely  taken  three  steps  ere  she 
cries  out :  — 

"  It  is  Dard  !  it  is  po<jr  Dard ! 
Come  here,  Dard  :  go  to  my  sister." 

Dard  limped  towards  them,  leaning 
upon  Sergeant  La  Croix.  A  bit  or 
liard's  heel  had  been  shot  away. 

J^aurc  ran  to  the  kitchen. 

".lacintha,  bring  out  a  table  into 
the  Pleasance,  and  something  for  two 
guests  to  cat." 

The  soldiers  came  slowly  to  the 
Pleasance,  and  were  welcomed  and 
invited  to  sit  down,  and  received  with 
respect:  for  France  is  not  like  Eng- 
land,—  she  honors  the  humidest  of 
her  brave. 

Soon  Jacintlia  came  out  with  a  lit- 
tle round  table  in  her  hands.  She 
dropped  it  at  sight  of  Dard.  and  ut- 
tered a  cry  of  joy,  then  nflected  a 
composure  which  was  belied  by  her 
shaking  hands  and  her  glowing  cheek. 

After  a  few  words  of  homely  wel- 
come,—  not  clofiuent,  but  very  sin- 
cere, —  she  went  off  with  her  apron 
to  her  eyes.  She  reappeare*!  with 
the  good  cheer,  and  served  the  poor 
fellows  with  radiant  zeal. 

"  What  regiment?  "  asked  Raynal. 

Dard  was  about  to  answer,  but  his 
.superior  stopped  him  severely  ;  then, 
rising  witli  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  he 
rcplietl,  with  pride  :  — 

"  Twenty-fourth  Brigade,  second 
company.  We  were  cut  up  at  Phil- 
ipsburg,  and  incorporated  with  tlie 
twelfth. 

Kaynal  regretted  his  question  :  for 
Josejjhinc's  eye  was  instantly  fixed 
on  Sergeant  La  Croix,  with  an  ex- 
pression words  cannot  paint.  Yet 
she  showed  more  composure,  real  or 
forced,  than  he  expected. 

"  Heaven  sends  him,"  said  she. 
"  My  friend,  tell  me.  were  you  —  ah  !  " 

Colonel  Kaynal  interfered  hastily. 

"  Think  what  you  do,  my  poor 
friend.  He  can  tell  you  nothing  but 
what  we  know  :  not  so  much,  in  fact, 
as  we  know,  for  now  I  look  at  him  I 
think  this  is  the  very  sergeant  we 
found  Iving  insensible  under  the  has- 


WHITE  LIES. 


277 


tion.     He  must  have  been  struck  be- 
fore tlie  bastion  was  taken  even." 

"  I  was,  colonel,  i  was.  I  remember 
nothing  but  losing  my  senses,  and 
feeling  the  colors  go  out  of  my  hand." 

"  There,  vou  see,  he  knows  noth- 
ing." 

"  It  was  hot  work,  colonel,  under 
that  bastion,  but  it  was  hotter  to  the 
poor  fellows  that  got  in.  I  heard  ail 
about  it  from  Private  Dard  here." 

"  So,  then,  it  was  you  who  carried 
the  colors  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  was  struck  down  with  the 
colors  of  the  l>rigade  in  my  hand," 
cried  La  Croix. 

"  See  how  people  lie  about  every- 
thing,—  they  told  me  the  colonel  car- 
ried the  colors." 

"  Why,  of  course  he  did.  You 
don't  think  our  colonel,  the  fighting 
colonel,  would  let  me  bold  the  colors 
of  the  brigade  so  long  as  he  was  alive. 
No  !  he  was  struck  by  a  Prussian  bul- 
let, and  he  had  just  time  to  hand  the 
colors  to  me,  and  point  with  his  sword 
to  the  bastion,  and  down  he  went. 
It  was  hot  work,  I  can  tell  you.  I 
did  not  hold  them  long,  not  thirty  sec- 
onds, and,  if  we  could  know  their 
history,  they  passed  through  more 
hands  than  that,  before  they  got  to 
the  Prussian  flag-staff." 

liaynal  suddenly  rose,  and  walked 
rapidly  to  and  fro,  with  his  liands  be- 
hind him. 

"  Poor  colonel,"  continued  La 
Croi.x,  "  well,  I  love  to  think  he  died 
like  a  soldier,  and  not  like  some  of  my 
poor  comrades,  hashed  to  atoms,  and 
not  a  volley  fired  over  him.  I  hope 
they  put  a  stone  over  him,  for  he  was 
the  best  soldier  and  the  best  general 
in  the  army." 

"  O  sir  ! "  cried  Josephine,  "  there  is 
no  stone  even  to  mark  the  spot  where 
he  fell  "  ;  and  she  sobbed  despairinglv. 

"  Why,  how  is  this,  Private  Dard  f " 
inquired  La  Croix,  sternly. 

Dard  apologized  for  the  sergeant 
Since  his  wound,  his  memory  comes 
and  goes. 

"Now,  sergeant,  didn't  I  tell  yon 
the  colonel  must  have  got  the  better 


of  his  wound,  and  got  into  the  bat- 
tery ■?  " 

"  It 's  false.  Private  Dard,  don't  I 
know  our  colonel  better  than  that  ? 
Would  ever  he  have  let  those  colors 
out  of  his  hand,  if  there  had  been  an 
ounce  of  life  left  in  him  1  " 

"  He  died  at  the  foot  of  the  battery, 
I  tell  you." 

"  Then  why  did  n't  you  find  him  1 " 

Here  Jacintha  put  in  a  word  with  the 
quiet,  subdued  meaning  of  her  class  :  — 

"  I  can't  find  that  anybody  ever 
saw  the  colonel  dead." 

"  They  did  not  find  him,  because 
they  did  not  look  for  him,"  said  Ser- 
geant La  Croix. 

"God  forgive  you,  sergeant,"  said 
Dard,  with  some  feeling.  "  Not  look 
for  owr  colonel  !  We  turned  over  every 
body  that  lay  there,  —  full  thirty  there 
were,  —  and  you  were  one  of  them." 

"  Only  thii  ty  !  why,  we  settled  more 
Prussians  than  that',  I  '11  swear.  0, 
the  enemy  had  carried  them  off." 

"  Ay !  but  I  don't  see  why  they 
should  carry  our  colonel  off.  His 
epaulets  were  all  the  thieves  could  do 
any  good  with.  Stop  !  yes,  I  do.  Pri- 
vate Dard ;  I  have  a  horrible  suspi- 
cion. No  !  I  have  not,  —  it  is  a  cer- 
tainty. What,  don't  you  see,  ye 
muff?  thunder  and  thousands  of  dev- 
ils, here  's  a  disgrace.  Dogs  of  Prus- 
sians, they  have  got  our  colonel,  — 
thev  have  taken  him  prisoner." 

"  O  God  bless  them !  0  God  bless 
the  mouth  that  tells  me  so.  O  sir,  I 
am  his  wife,  his  poor,  heart-broken 
wife.  You  would  not  be  so  cruel  as 
to  mock  my  despair.  Say  again 
that  he  may  be  alive, — pray  say  it 
again  ! " 

"His  wife!  Private  Dard,  why 
did  n't  you  tell  me  ?  Yes,  my  pretty 
lady,  I  '11  say  it  again,  and  I  'il  pijve 
it.  Here  is  an  enemy  in  full  retreat, 
—  would  they  encumber  themselves 
with  the  colonel  ?  —  if  he  was  dead, 
they  'd  have  whipped  off  his  epaulets, 
and  left  him  there.  Alive?  —  why 
not?  Look  at  me:  I  am  alive,  and 
I  was  worse  wounded  than  he  was. 
They    took    me    for    dead,    you    see. 


278 


WlIITt:  LIES. 


Courage,  niadumc  !  ymi  will  see  him 
again, —  take  an  old  soldier's  word 
for  it.  Dard,  attention  !  this  is  the 
colonel's  wile." 

She  gnze<l  on  the  speaker  like  one 
in  a  trance. 

Kvi-ry  eye  and  every  soul  had  heen  ' 
so  bent  on  Ser;.'eant  La  Croix,  that 
it  was  only  now  Haynal  was  ol»served 
to  be  missing.  The  next  minute  he 
came  riding  out  of  the  stable-yard, 
and  went  full  gallop  down   the  road. 

"  Ah  !  "  eried  Laure,  with  a  burst 
of  hope.  "  He  thinks  so  too  :  he 
has  hoj)es.  He  has  gone  somewhere 
fur  information.     I'erhaps  to  I'aris.' 

Josephine's  excitement,  and  alter- 
nations of  hope  and  fear,  were  now 
alarming.  Laure  held  her  hand,  and 
imploretl  her  to  try  and  be  calm  till 
they  could  see  l\aynal. 

Just  before  dark  he  came  riding 
fiercely  home.  Josephine  Hew  down 
the  stairs.  Raynal  at  sight  of  her 
forgot  all  his  caution.  Ue  waved  his 
cocked  hat  in  the  air.  She  fell  on 
her  knees  and  thanked  God.  He 
gasped  out : — 

"  Prisoner,  —  exchanged  for  two 
Prussian  lieutenants,  — sent  home, — 
they  say  he  is  in  France  !  " 

'i'he  "tears  of  joy  gushed  in  streams 
from  her. 

Some  days  passed  in  hope  and  joy 
inexpressible;  but  the  good  doctor 
was  uneasy  for  Josephine.  She  was 
always  listening  with  supernatural 
keenness,  and  starting  from  lier 
chair  :  and  every  fibre  of  her  love- 
ly person  seemed  to  be  on  the  quiv- 
er. 

Nor  was  Laure  without  a  serious 
misgiving.  Would  husband  and  wife 
ever  meet?  He  evidently  looked  on 
her  as  Madame  Raynal,  and  made  it 
n  jipint  of  honor  to  keep  away  from 
Beaurepairc.  They  had  recourse  to 
that  ever-soothing  influence,  —  her 
child.  Thrice  a  week  she  went  to 
Frejus,  and  used  to  come  away  briglit- 
cr  and  calmer. 

One  day  Laure  and  she  went  on 
foot  to  Aiadame  .Touvcnel,  and,  en- 
tering the  house  without   ceremony, 


found   tlie   nurse   f)ut,    and    no    one 
wat<'hing  the  child. 

"  How  careless  !  "  said  Laure. 

Josephine  stooped  eagerly  to  kiss 
him.  Hut,  instead  of  kissing  liim, 
she  uttered  a  loud  cry.  There  was 
a  locket  hanging  rouii<l  his  neck. 

It  was  a  locket  contaitiing  some  of 
Josephine's  hair  and  Camille's.  She 
had  given  it  him  in  the  happy  days 
that  followed  their  marriage.  She 
stood  gas])ing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  Madame  .louvencl  came  run- 
ning in  just  at  that  moment.  Jose- 
j)hine,  by  a  wonderful  ell'ort  over 
herself,  asked  her  calmly  and  cun- 
ningly :  — 

"  Where  is  the  gentleman  who  put 
this  locket  rouml  my  child's  neck  ? 
I  want  to  speak  with  him." 

Madame  Jouvencl  stammered  and 
looked  confused. 

"  A  soldier,  —  an  officer  ?  —  come, 
tell  me." 

"  Woman,"  cried  Laure,  "  why  do 
you  hesitate  ?  —  it  is  her  husband  !  " 

"  I  guessed  as  much ;  but  my  or- 
ders are  —  and  if  madame  does  not 
love  the  jioor  gentleman  —  " 

"  Not  love  him  ! "  cried  Laure. 
"  She  loves  him  as  no  woman  ever 
loved  before.  She  pines  for  him. 
She  dies  for  him." 

The  door  of  a  little  hack  room 
opened  at  these  words  of  I^aure,  and 
there  stood  Camille,  with  his  arm  in 
a  sling,  pale  and  astounded,  but  great 
joy  working  in  his  face. 

Josephine  gave  a  cry  of  love  that 
made  the  other  two  women  weep,  and 
in  a  moment  they  were  sobbing  for 
joy  upon  each  other's  neck. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

Away  went  sorrow,  doubt,  despair, 
and  all  they  had  suHered.  That  one 
moment  paid  for  all.  And  in  that 
moment  of  joy  and  suqirise,  so  great 
as  to  be  almost  terrible,  perhaps  it 
was  well  for  Josephine  that  Camille, 
weakened    by    his  wound,  was  quite 


WHITE  LIES. 


279 


overcome,  and  nearly  fainted.  She 
was  herself  just  going  into  hysterics, 
but,  seeing  hiin  quite  overcome,  she 
conquered  them  directly,  and  mused 
and  soothed,  and  jji'ied,  and  encour- 
aged him  instead. 

Then  they  sat  hand  in  hand.  Their 
happiness  stopped  their  very  breath. 
They  could  not  speak.  So  Laure  told 
him  all.  He  never  owned  why  he 
had  slipped  away  when  he  saw  them 
coming.  He  forgot  it.  He  forgot  all 
his  hard  thoughts  of  her.  They  took 
him  home  in  the  carriage.  His  wife 
would  not  let  him  out  of  her  sight. 
For  years  and  years  after  this  she  could 
hardly  bear  to  let  him  be  an  hour  out 
of  her  sight.  The  world  is  wide ;  there 
may  be  a  man  in  it  wiio  can  paint  the 
sudden  bliss  that  fell  on  these  two 
much-suffering  hearts,  but  I  am  not 
that  man.  This  is  beyond  me.  It  was 
not  only  heaven,  but  heaven  after  hell. 

Leave  we  the  indescribable  and  the 
unspeakable  for  a  moment,  and  go  to 
a  lighter  theme. 

The  day  Laure's  character  was  so 
unexpectedly  cleared,  Edouard  had 
no  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her,  or 
a  reconciliation  would  have  taken 
place.  As  it  was,  he  went  home  in- 
tensely happy.  But  he  did  not  re- 
sume his  visits  to  the  chateau.  Wlien 
lie  came  to  think  calmly  over  it,  his 
vanity  was  cruelly  mortified.  She 
was  innocent  of  the  greater  otfence  ; 
but  how  insolently  she  had  sacrificed 
him,  his  love,  and  his  respect,  to 
another's  interest. 

More  generous  thoughts  prevailed 
bv  degrees.  And  one  day  that  her 
pale  face,  her  tears,  and  her  remorse 
got  the  better  of  his  offended  pride, 
he  found  he  could  forgive  her.  And 
he  was  sure  he  could  not  be  happy  if 
he  did  not. 

He  called,  she  received  him,  — 
how  1  not  on  her  knees  as  he  expect- 
ed, but  with  a  stateliness  and  frozen 
reserve  that  gave  him  a  new  light  as 
to  the  ins  and  outs  of  female  charac- 
ter. In  the  middle  of  a  grave  re- 
monstrance, which  he  intended  to 
end  by  forgiving  her,    she   tuld   him 


that  she  had  been  debating  pro  and 
con,  whether  she  could  forgive  him, 
and  she  found  she  could  ;  but  not  to 
such  an  extent  as  ever  to  become  his 
wife. 

"  Forgive  me  ?  "  cried  he,  in  great 
heat.  He  went  into  a  passion,  and 
could  hardly  articulate.  This  gave 
her  an  advantage.  She  remained 
cold  and  collected.  She  told  him  lie 
had  wounded  her  too  deeply  by  his 
jealous,  susj)icious  nature. 

"  Was  I  not  to  believe  your  own 
lips  ?  Am  I  the  only  one  who  be- 
lieved you?  was  I  to  sav,  '  She  is  a 
liar"?" 

"  I  forgive  Colonel  Raynal  for  be- 
lieving me  !  He  did  not  know  me : 
but  you  ought  to  have  known  me. 
It  is  not  as  if  we  had  been  alone. 
You  were  my  lover.  You  should 
have  seen  I  was  forced  to  deceive 
poor  Raynal :  and  you  had  no  right 
to  believe  your  ej'es,  much  less  your 
ears,  against  my  truth  !  " 

Edouard  was  staggered. 

"  I  did  not  see  it  in  that  light," 
said  lie. 

"  But  that  is  the  light  I  see  it  in." 

"  And  do  you  make  no  excuse  for 
me,  Laure  ?  I  have  been  making 
many  for  you,"  said  Edouard,  hum- 
hly. 

"  I  don't  know  what  excuses  to 
make  for  you,  but  if  you  are  humble, 
and  ask  my  pardon,  I  will  try  and 
forgive  you,  —  in  time." 

"  Forgive  me,  Laure  !  Your  sex 
are  hard  to  understand.  Forgive 
me  !  " 

"  Oil !  oh  !  oh  !  " 

"  What  is  the  matter,  dear  ?  Why 
do  you  cr3'  ?  " 

"  What  a  f — f — fool  you  are  not  to 
see  that  it  is  I  who  am  witiiout  excuse. 
You  are  my  betrothed.  It  was  to 
you  I  owed  my  duty,  —  not  to  my 
sister.  To  you,  —  the  best  friend  I 
ever  had.  O  Edouard  !  I  am  wick- 
ed, —  unhappy.  No  wonder  you 
can't  forgive  me." 

"  I  do  forgive  you."  He  caught 
her  in  his  arms.  "  There,  no  more 
about    foi-giveness,   my    betiothed, — • 


280 


WHITE  LIKS. 


my  wife  ;  lot  our  contention  be  which  ! 
shall  lovo  the  other  best." 

"  O,  1  know  how  that  will  be  !  "  , 
said  Laiire,  smiling  with  joy,  and  i 
swallowing,'  a  great  sob  ;  "  you  will  ! 
love  mo  l)est  till  you  have  got  nie, 
and  then  I  shall  love  you  best,"  said  : 
the  (lisecrninLC  toad.  : 

Tliese  two  were  a  liappy  pair.  I 
This  wayward,  but  generous  lieart 
never  forgot  her  offence,  and  his  for- 
giveness. She  gave  lierself  to  liim,  ! 
heart  and  soul,  at  the  altar,  and  well 
she  redeemed  her  vow.  He  rose  hii;h 
in  politieal  life  :  and  ))aid  the  penalty 
of  that  sort  of  ambition.  His  hciirt 
was  often  sore.  IJut  by  his  own 
hearth  sat  comfort  ami  ever-ready 
lympathy.  Ay,  and  patient  industry 
to  read  blue  books,  and  a  ready  hand 
and  bruin  to  write  diplomatic  notes 
for  him,  off  which  the  miiul  glided  as 
from  a  ball  of  ice. 

Ill  thirty  years  she  never  once 
mentioned  the  servants  to  him  ! 

O  let  eternal  honor  crown  her  name ! 

It  was  only  a  little  bit  of  heel  that 
Dard  had  lei't  in  Prussia.  More  for- 
tunate than  his  predecessor  (Achille-;), 
he  got  off  with  a  slight  but  enduring 
limp.     And  so  the  army  lost  him. 

He  married  Jacintha,  and  Jose- 
phine set  them  up  in  Byot's  (de- 
ceased) anberrje.  ,Iacintha  shone  as  a 
landlady,  and  custom  flowed  in.  For 
all  that,  a  hankering  after  Beaure- 
paire  was  observable  in  her.  Her 
favorite  stroll  was  into  the  Beaurc- 
paire  kitchen,  and  on  all  jTiis  and 
grand  occasions  she  was  jirominent  in 
gay  attire  as  a  retainer  of  the  hou*e. 
The  la^^t  specimen  of  her  homely  sa- 
gacity I  shall  have  the  honor  to  lay 
before  you  is  a  critique  upon  her 
husband,  which  she  vented  six  years 
after  marriage. 

"  My  Dard,"  saiil  she,  "  is  very 
good  ius  far  as  he  goes.  What  he  has 
felt  himself,  that  he  can  feel  for  :  no- 
body better.  You  come  to  him  with 
an  emi)ty  belly,  or  a  broken   head,  or 


nil  bleeding  with  n  rut,  or  black  and 
blue,  and  you  shall  find  a  friend.  But 
if  it  is  a  sore  heart,  or  trouble,  and 
sorrow,  and  no  hole  in  vour  carcass  to 
show  for  it,  you  had  U'ltcr  come  to 
me,  for  you  might  as  well  tell  yotu 
grief  to  a  stone  wall  as  to  my  man." 

The  baroness  took  her  son  Baynal 
to  Paris,  and  there,  with  keen  eye, 
selected  him  a  wife.  She  proved  an 
excellent  one.  It  would  have  been 
hard  if  she  had  not.  for  the  baroness, 
with  the  severe  sagacity  of  her  age 
and  sex,  had  set  aside  as  naught  a 
score  of  seeming  an'_'cls,  before  she 
could  suit  herself  with  a  daughter-in- 
law.  At  first  Baynal  very  properly 
kept  dear  of  the  Dujardins,  but  when 
both  had   Ijccn  married  some  years, 

j  the  recollection  of  that  fleeting  and 

I  nominal  connection  waxed  faint, 
while  the  memory  of  great  lienchts 
conferred  on  both  sides  remained 
lively  as  ever  in  hearts  so  great,  ami 
there  was  a  warm,  a  sacred  friendship 
between  the  two  houses,  —  a  friend- 
ship of  the  ancient  Greeks,  not  of  the 
modern  club-house. 

Camille  and  Josephine  were  blessed 
almost  beyond  the  lot  of  humanity: 
none  can  really  appreciate    sunshine 

I  but  those  who  come  out  of  the  cold 
dark.  And  so  with  happiness.  For 
ycajs   they  could   hardly  be   said  to 

I  live  like  mortals  :  they  basked  in  bliss- 
But  it  was  a  near  thing.  They  but 
just  scraped  clear  of  life-long  misery, 
an<l  death's  cold  touch  grazed  them 
both  as  they  went. 

Yet  they  had  heroic  virtues  to  bal- 
ance White  Lies  in  the  great  Judge's 
eye. 

i  Have  you  great  heroic  virtues  ?  — 
no  ?  —  then  remember  Ananias  and 
Sappliira.     They    died    for   a   single 

I  Wiiite  Lie,  —  a  White  Lie  as  com- 
moTi  as  dirt. 

j      Have  you  great  licroic  virtues  '  — 

lyes?  —  then  do  not  nullify  or  defile 
them  by  White  Lies,  but  gild  them 
bri'dit  as  the  sun  with  Truth. 


THE   F.ND. 


VALUABLE  AND  INTERESTING  WORKS 

FOR 

PUBLIC  AND  PRIVATE  LIBRARIES 

Published  by  IIAEPER  &  BROTHERS,  Nkw  York. 


tS~  Fur  a  full  List  of  Books  suitable  for  Libraries,  see  Hai:per  &  Bkothekb' 
Tbade-List  and  Catalogue,  which  may  be  had  gratuitously  on  application 
to  the  Publishers  imsonally,  or  by  letter  enclosing  Ten  Cents  in  Postage 
Stamps. 

Harpek   &  Brotiierb  icill  send  any  of  the  folloioing  works  by  mail  or  u 
press,  postage  or  freight  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States  or  Catu 
ada,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


ALISON'S  HISTORY  OP  EUROPE.  First  Series:  From  the  Comniencemc  i 
of  the  Pieuch  Revolution,  in  1T89,  to  the  Restoration  of  the  Bourbons  lu 
1S15.  [In  addition  to  the  Notes  on  Chapter  LXXVI.,  which  correct  the  er- 
rors of  the  original  work  concerning  the  United  State?,  a  copious  Analytical 
Judex  has  been  appended  to  this  American  Edition.]  Second  Series:  From 
the  Fall  of  Napoleon,  in  1815,  to  the  Accession  of  Louis  Napoleon,  iu  18.V2. 
8  vol*.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $16  on. 

ABBOTT'S  DICTIONARY  OF  RELIGIOUS  KNOWLEDGE.  A  Dictionary  of 
Religions  Knowledge,  for  Popular  and  Professional  Use:  comprising  full  In- 
formation on  Biblical,  Theological,  and  Ecclesiastical  Subjects.  With  nearly 
One  Thousand  Maps  and  Illustrations.  Edited  by  the  Rev.  Lyman  Ahiott, 
with  the  Co-operation  of  the  Rev.  T.  C.  Conant,  D.D.  Royal  8vo,  containing 
over  1000  pages.  Cloth,  $6  00 ;  Sheep,  $T  00  ;  Half  Morocco,  $S  50. 

ABBOTT'S  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  The  History  of  Frederick  the  Second, 
called  Frederick  the  Great.  By  Joun  S.  C.  Auuott.  Illustrated.  Svo,  Cloth, 
$5  00.  '  ' 

ABBOTT'S  HISTORY  OP  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  The  French  Revo- 
lution of  1789,  as  viewed  iu  the  Light  of  Republican  Institutions.  By  Joun 
S.  C.  Abbott.     Illustrated.     Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

ABBOTT'S  NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE.  The  History  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 
By  John  S.  C.  Abbott.  With  Maps,  Woodcuts,  and  Portraits  on  Steel.  2 
vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $10  00. 

ABBOTT'S  NAPOLEON  AT  ST.  HELENA.  Napoleon  at  St.  Helena  ;  or,  In- 
teresting Anecdotes  and  Remarkable  Conversations  of  the  Emperor  during 
the  Five  and  a  Half  Years  of  his  Captivitj'.  Collected  from  the  Memorials 
of  Las  Casas.  O'Meara,  Montholon,  Antommarchi,  and  others.  By  John  S. 
C.  Abbott.     Illustrated.     Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

ADDISON'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Works  of  Joseph  Addison,  embracing 
the  whole  of  the  .Si>P(-tator.    3  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $6  00. 

ANNUAL  RECORD  OP  SCIENCE  AND  INDUSTRY.  The  Annual  Record  of 
Science  and  Industry.  Edited  by  Professor  Spencer  F.  BAtRT>,  of  the  Smith- 
sonian Iiistitntiiin,  with  the  Assistance  of  Eminent  Men  of  Science.  The 
Yearly  Volumes  for  ISTl,  1ST2,  1S73,  1874,  and  1875  are  ready.  12mo,  Cloth, 
$2  00  per  vol. 

BAKER'S  ISMAILIA.  Ismailia  :  a  Nnrrative  of  the  Expedition  to  Central  Africa 
for  the  Sniipression  of  the  Sbive-Trade,  organized  by  Ismail,  Khedive  of 
Egypt.  By  Sir  SAMrEt.  Wuite  Baker,  Parha,  F.R.S.,  F.E.G.S.  With  Maps, 
Portraits,  and  Illustrations.    Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 


2       Valual'U  and  Interesting  Works  for  Public  and  Prii'atc  Libraries. 

BOSWKLL'S  JOHNSON.    The  Life  ofSiuinicl  Jnhnsnii.  LL.D.,  liicladinR  a  Joiir- 

iiiil  of  II  Tour  to  the  HfliridcM.  Uy  Jamkm  Hoswki.i.,  Kp<|.  Kditeil  liy  John 
WiijfoN  C'lioKEU,  LL.D.,  F.H.S.  N\  illi  u  I'mliuil  of  Jloswcll.  'i,  vols.,  svo, 
C  lolh,  $4  tm. 

BOriCNK'S  LIFE  OF  JOHN  LOCKE.  The  Life  of  John  Locke  By  IL  IL  Fox 
h<icUNE.    'I  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  uncut  edjjes  and  gilt  top»,  $5  (ki. 

BROIT.HAM'S  .MTTOBIOGRAPHY.  Life  nnd  Times  of  llemy,  Lord  Brougham. 
Written  by  llinu'elf.    3  vols.,  linio,  Cloth,  $0  00. 

BULWER'-S  nOR.ACE.  The  Odes  nnd  Ejiodes  of  Horace.  A  Metrical  Transla- 
tion into  Euplish.  With  IntriMlmtion  an<l  Coninicntaries.  Bv  Loed  Lvtton. 
With  Latin  Text  from  the  Editions  of  Orclli,  Mucleanc,  audYonge.  I'Jino, 
Cloth,  *1  75. 

BLLWEK'S  KINtJ  ARTHUR.  King  Arthur.  A  Poem.  By  Loud  Lttto.x. 
l'2mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

BLLWKR'S  I'RO.SE  WORKS.  MiHcellaiiPons  ProHC  Works  of  Edward  Bnlwer, 
Lord  Lvtton.  i  vols.,  I'Jino,  Cloth,  !j;3  £.0.  Also,  in  uuiform  style,  Cuxtoniatia. 
limo.  Cloth,  $1  75. 

CARLYLE'S  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  History  of  Friedrich  IL,  called 
Frederick  the  Great.  By  Tuomas  Cablyle.  Portraits,  Maps,  Plans,  &c.  6 
vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  412  00. 

CARLYLE'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  The  French  Revolution :  a  History. 
By  Tuo.MAB  Cari.vlk.     2  vols.,  12uio,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

CARLYLE'S  OLIVER  CROMWELL.  Oliver  Cromwell's  Letters  and  S|>eeche8, 
including  the  Supj)lenient  to  the  First  Edition.  With  Elucidations.  By 
Thomas  Cabi.vi.k.    5i  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  60. 

COLERIDGE'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Complete  Work.?  of  Samnrl  Tavlor 
Coleridge.  With  an  Introductory  E?say  upon  his  Philosophical  and  Theol.)g- 
ical  Opinions.  Edited  by  the  Rev.  W.  G.  T.  Sukdd,  D.D.  With  a  PortraiU 
7  vols.,  T2mo,  Cloth,  $10  50. 

COLERIDCJE'S  (Sara)  MEMOIR  AND  LETTERS.  Memoir  and  Letters  of  Sara 
Coleridge.  Edited  by  her  Daughter.  With  Two  Portraits  on  Steel.  Crown 
Svo,  Cloth,  $2  60. 

D.WIS'S  C.\RTH.'\GE.  Carthage  and  her  Remains:  being  an  Account  of  the 
E.xcavations  and  Researches  on  the  Site  of  the  Phccnician  Metropolis  in  Africa 
nnd  other  Adjacent  Places.  Conducted  under  the  Auspices  of  Her  Majesty's 
Government.  15y  Dr.  N.  Davis,  F.R.G.S.  Profusely  Illustrated  with  Maps, 
Woodcuts,  Clironio-Lithograiths,  &c.     Svo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

DRAPER'S  AMERICAN  CIVIL  POLICY.  Thoughts  on  the  Fufnre  Civil  Policy 
of  America.  By  John  W.  Diiai-kii,  M.D.,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Chemistry  and 
Physiology  in  the  University  of  New  York.    Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

DRAPER'S  CIVIL  WAR.  History  of  the  American  Civil  War.  By  John  W. 
DRAPF.m  M.D.,  LL.D.  3  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  Beveled  Edges,  $10  60;  Sheep, 
$1-2  (Ml;  Half  Calf,  $17  25. 

DRAPER'S  INTELLECTUAL  DEVELOPMENT  OF  EUROPE.  A  History  of 
the  Intellectual  Development  of  Europe.  By  John  W.  Drapek,  M.D.,  LL.D. 
New  Edition,  Revised.    2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  (KJ. 

DU  CHAILLU'S  AFRICA.  Explorations  nnd  Adventures  in  Equatorial  Africa: 
with  Accounts  of  the  Manners  and  Customs  of  the  People,  and  of  the  Chase 
of  the  Gorilla,  the  Crocodile,  Leopard,  Elephant,  Hippopotamus,  and  other 
Animals.     By  PAcr,  B.  Dd  CuAii.i.f.     Illustrated.    Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

DU  CHAILLUS  ASHANGO  LAND.  A  Journey  to  Ashnncro  Land:  nnd  Further 
Penetration  into  Equatorial  Africa.  By  Paci.  B.  Dv  Chaillu.  Illustrated. 
Svo,  Cloth,  .$5  00. 

FLAMMARION'S  ATMOSPHERE.  The  Atmosphere.  Translated  from  the 
French  of  Camii.i.k  Fi.amm  mcion.  Edited  by  Ja.mrs  Gi.aisiikr,  F.R.S.,  Su- 
perintendent of  the  Magiieticnl  nnd  Mi'tcorolo^icnl  Department  of  the  Royal 
Ohservatorv  at  Greenwich.  With  10  Chromo-Lithograpbs  and  86  Woodcuts. 
Svo,  Cloth,  |C  00, 


Valuable  and  Interesting  Works  for  Public  ami  Private  Libraries.      3 

FIRST  CENTURY  OF  TUB  REPUBLIC.  A  Review  of  American  Pio'Tess. 
8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00;  Sheep,  $5  50;  Half  Morocco,  $7  25. 

Contents. 

Introdiictioii :  I.  Colonial  Progress.  Hy  Eitgknk  Lawrence.— II.  Mechanical 
Progress.  By  Edward  II.  Kniciit — III.  Progress  in  Manufacture.  By 
the  Hon.  David  A.  VVeli.s.— IV.  Agricultural  Progress.  By  Professor 
Wm.  II.  Brewkk. — V.  The  Develoiniient  of  our  Mineral  Resources.  By 
Professor  T.  Steuhv  Hunt. — VI.  Commercial  Development.  By  Edward 
Atkinson. — VII.  Growth  and  Distribution  of  Population.  By  the  Hon. 
Francis  A.  Walker. — VIII.  Monetary  Development.  By  Professor  Wil- 
liam G.  Sumner.— IX.  The  Experiment  of  the  Union,  with  its  Prepara- 
tions. By  T.  D.  Woolsev,  D.D.,  LL.D.— X.  Educational  Progress.  By 
Eugene  Lawrence. — XL  Scientilic  Progress  :  1.  The  Exact  Sciences.  By 
F.  A.  P.  Barnard,  D.D.,  LL.D.  2.  Natural  Science.  By  Professor  Theo- 
dore Gill.  —  XII.  A  Century  of  American  Literature.  By  Edwin  P. 
Whipple. —Xlll.  Progress  o'f  the  Fine  Arts.  By  S.  S.  Conant.  — XIV. 
Medical  and  Sanitary  Progress.  By  Austin  Flint,  M.D.— XV.  American 
Jurisprudence.  By  Benjamin  Vaugiian  AuitoTT.— XVI.  Humanitarian 
Progi-ess.  By  Charles  L.  Beace.— XVU.  Religious  Development.  By 
the  Rev.  John  F.  Huest,  D.D. 

FORSTER'S  LIFE  OF  DEAN  SWIFT.  The  Early  Life  of  Jonathan  Swift  (ICCT- 
1711).    By  John  Forstee.    With  Portrait.    8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

GIBBON'S  ROME.  The  History  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire. 
By  Edward  Giuuon.  With  Notes  by  Rev.  H.  II.  Milman  and  M.  Guizot.  A 
new  cheap  Edition.    With  Index  and  a  Portrait.    C  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $5  40. 

GREEN'S  SHORT  HISTORY  OF  THE  ENGLISH  PEOPLE.  A  Short  History 
of  the  English  People.  By  J.  R.  Green,  M.A.,  Examiner  in  the  School  of 
Modern  History,  Oxford.    With  Tables  and  Colored  Maps.    Svo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

GROTE'S  HISTORY  OF  GREECE.    12  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $18  00. 

HALLAM'S  CONSTITUTIONAL  HISTORY  OP  ENGLAND.  The  Constitu- 
tional History  of  England,  from  the  Accession  of  Henry  VII.  to  the  Death  of 
George  IL    By  Henry  Hallam.    Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

HALLAM'S  LITERATURE.  Introduction  to  the  Literature  of  Europe  during 
the  Fifteenth,  Sixteenth,  and  Seventeenth  Centuries.  By  Henry  Hallam. 
2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

HALLAM'S  MIDDLE  AGES.  View  of  the  State  of  Europe  during  the  Middle 
Ages.    By  Henry  Hallam.    Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

HARPER'S  NEW  CLASSICAL  LIBRARY.    Literal  Translations. 

The  following  Volumes  are  now  ready.    12nio,  Cloth,  $1  50  each. 

Cesar.  — Virgil.  —  Sallust. — Horace.  —  Cicero's  Orations.  —  Cicero's  Of- 
fices, &c.  —  Cicf.ro  on  Oratory  and  Orators.  —  Tacitus  (2  vols.). — 
Terence.  —  Sophocles.  —  Juvenal.  —  Xenophon.  —  Homer's  Ili ad Ho- 
mer's Odyssey. — Hiuodotus. — Demosthenes.— Thucydides.  — .(Escuylus. 
— Euripides  (2  vols.). — LivY  (2  vols.). — Plato  [Select  Dialogues], 

HAYDN'S  DICTIONARY  OF  DATES,  relating  to  all  Ages  and  Nations.  For 
Universal  Reference.  Edited  by  Benjamin  Vincent,  Assistant  Secretary  and 
Keeper  of  the  Library  of  the  Royal  Institution  of  Great  Biitain  ;  and  Revised 
for  the  Use  of  American  Readers.    Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00  ;  Sheep,  $C  00. 

HILDRETH'S  UNITED  STATES.  History  of  the  United  States.  First  Series  : 
From  the  Discovery  of  the  Continent  to  the  Organization  of  the  Government 
nnder  the  Federal  Constitution.  Second  Series:  From  the  Adoption  of  the 
Federal  Constitution  to  the  End  of  the  Sixteenth  Congress.  By  Richard 
Hildretu.    6  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $1S  00. 

HUME'S  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND.  The  History  of  England,  from  the  Invasion 
of  Julius  Caesar  to  the  Abdication  of  James  IL,  IfiSS.  By  David  Hume.  A 
new  Edition,  with  the  Author's  Last  Corrections  and  Improvements.  To 
which  is  prefixed  a  short  Account  of  his  Life,  written  by  himself.  With  a 
Portrait  of  the  Author.    G  vols.,  12rao,  Cloth,  $^  40. 


4      /  \duabU  and  Interesting  Works  for  Public  and  Private  Libraries. 


HUDSON'S  HISTORY  OP  JOURNALISM.  Joiirnnllsm  In  the  Uiilled  StnieB, 
from  ItJOO  to  1.S72.     Hy  Frkdeuk)  lluiiBoM.    8vo,  Clolli,  $5  00. 

JEFFKUSON'S  DOMESTIC  LIFE.  The  Domestic  Life  of  Th>>mnt  Jefrercon  : 
coiiipili'd  fri>m  Family  LclieiH  nii<l  KciiiiiiiMi-iuL-H,  by  Iiih  Cireiit  -  Giiiuil- 
d.nit'tuer,  Sai.aii  N.  Ka.nhoi.I'H.     lllu!<tuitc'cl.     Crown  8vo,  C'lolli,  f'i  'M. 

JOHNSON'S  COMI'LETE  WOlUvS.  The  Works  of  Samuel  Johnson,  Lkl). 
Wiih  an  Essay  on  his  Liff  mid  Ucuiut^,  by  Abiudu  Muuruv,  Esq.  VVilh  Por- 
trait,    -l  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  W. 

KIN'GL.\KK'S  CRIMEAN  WAR.  The  Invasion  of  Ihe  Crimea:  its  Ori;;in,  and 
an  Acconnt  of  lis  I'ro;,'ress  down  to  the  Death  of  Lord  Ra'^lan.  Uy  Alkxan- 
iiK.B  Wii.i.iAM  KiNiii.AKE.  With  Mups  uud  Pluus.  Three  Voluinca  now  ready. 
IJnii),     Clolh,  $2  UO  i)er  vol. 

LAMR'S  COMI'LETE  WORKS.  The  Works  of  Charles  Lamb.  Comprising' his 
I.etter.s,  I'dfins,  Essavs  of  Elia,  Essays  upon  Shaksneare,  lIoRnrlh,  Jfcc,  anil  ii 
Sketch  of  his  Life,  with  the  Final  Memorialis  by  T.  Noo.n  Talkouuh.  With 
Portrait.    L'  vol.-.,  I2mo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

LAWRENCE'S  HISTORICAL  STUDIES.  Historical  Slndies.  Ry  Ecof.nk  Law  - 
itENOK.     Contaiiiinf;  tlic  following  Essays:  The  Rishops  of  Rome.  — Leo  and 

l.uthcr. Loyohi  ami  the  Jesuits.— Ecumenical  Councils.— The  Vaudois.— 'I'hc 

lIu"uenols.— The  Church  of  Jerusalem.— Dominic  and  the  Diquisiliou.— The 
Cominest  of  Ireland.— The  Greek  Church.  Svo,  Cloth,  uucut  edges  and  gilt 
tops,  $3  00. 

LEWIS'S  HISTORY  OF  GERMANY.  A  History  <if  Germany,  from  the  Earliest 
Times.  Founded  on  Dr.  David  Mi:li.i;u's  "History  of  the  (Jermau  People." 
By  CuABLTON  T.  Lewis.    Illustrated.    Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  60. 

LIVINGSTONE'S  SOUTH  AFRICA.  Missionary  Travels  and  Researches  in 
South  Africa:  including  ii  Sketch  of  Sixteen  Years'  Residence  in  the  Interior 
of  Afric;i,  and  a  Journey  from  the  Cape  of  (}ood  Hope  to  Loaiido  on  the  West 
Coast;  thence  across  the  Continent,  down  the  River  Zambesi,  to  the  Eastern 
Ocean.  ByDAVio  Livisostone,  LL.D.,D.C.L.  With  Portrait,  Maps,  and  Illus- 
trations,   'bvo,  Cloth,  ,^4  50. 

LIVINGSTONE'S  ZAMBESL  Narrative  of  an  Expedition  to  the  Zambesi  and 
its  Tributaries,  and  of  the  Discovery  of  the  Lakes  Sliirwa  and  Nyassa,  IS-Vi- 
1SG4.  By  D.vviD  and  Cuaiiles  Livingstone.  With  Map  juid  Illustrations. 
Svo,  Cloth,  1^5  00. 

LIVINGSTONE'S  LAST  JOI'RNALS.  The  L;ist  Journals  of  David  Livinpr- 
ptoue,  in  Central  Afric;i,  from  Isii.'')  to  his  Death.  Continued  by  a  N.irralive 
of  his  Last  Moments  :iiid  Siin'eriiiL,'s,  oi)taiiied  from  his  F.iithfiil  Servants 
Cliuma  and  Susi.  I!y  Hoiiace  Wai.i.ku,  F.R.G.S.,  Rector  of  Twywell,  North- 
ampton. With  Portrait,  Maps,  and  Illustrations.  Svo,  Chith,  $6  00.  Cheap 
Popular  Edition,  Svo,  Cloth,  with  Mnp  and  Illustrations,  $2  60. 

LOSSING'S  FIELD-ROOK  OF  THE  REVOLUTION.  Pictorial  Field-Book  of 
the  Revolution  :  or,  Ulustrjitions  by  Pen  and  Pencil  of  the  History,  Bioura- 
pliy,  Scenerv,  Relics,  and  Tnditions  of  the  War  for  Independence.'  Bv  Bfn- 
Ki.N  J.  LossfNO.  2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  %\i  00;  Slice)),  $15  00;  Half  Calf,  flS  00; 
Full  Turkey  Morocco,  $22  00. 

LOSSING'S  FIEI.D-BOOK  OF  THE  WAK  OF  1S12.  Pictorial  Field-Book  of 
the  War  of  1S12;  or,  Illustrations  by  Pen  and  Pencil  of  Ihe  History,  Bio<rra- 
phy,  Scenery,  Relics,  and  Traditions  of  the  last  War  for  American  independ- 
ence. By  Bknron  J.  LossiNO.  With  several  hundred  Enjrraviii'.'s  on  Wood 
by  Lossin;j;  and  Barritt,  cliiellv  from  OriL'inul  Sketches  by  the  Author.  103S 
pa^es,  Svo,  Cloth,  $7  00;  Sheep,  $S  60;  Half  Calf,  .$10  00. 

MACAULAY'S  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND.  The  History  of  England  from  the 
Accession  of  James  II.  Bv  Tiiom*8  Bauinoton  Maoaui.av.  With  Portrait. 
6  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $10  on  ;  iiino,  Cloth,  %\  60. 

MACAULAY'S  LIFE  AND  LETTERS.  The  Life  and  Letters  of  Lord  Macaulay. 
Bv  his  Nephew,  (i.  Otto  Titr.vEi.vAN,  M.P.  With  Portrait  on  Steel.  Comiilete 
in'  2  villa.,  Svo,  Cloth,  uncut  edges  and  gilt  tops,  $6  00 ;  Sheep,  (6  00 ;  Half  Calf, 
$9  60;  Tree  Calf,  itl5  0(>. 


Valuable  and  Interesting  Works  f or  Public  and  Private  Libraries.      5 

M-CLINTOCK  &  STRONG'S  CYCLOPAEDIA.  Cyclopfedia  of  Biblical,  Theo- 
logical, aud  Ecclesiastical  Liteiatme.  riepaicd  by  the  liev.  Joun  M'Clin- 
TOOK,  D.D.,  and  Jamks  Strong,  S.T.D.  ij  vuls.  nuw  read;/.  Itoyal  Svo.  Price 
per  vol.,  Cloth,  $5  OU ;  Sheep,  $6  00 ;  Half  Morocco,  $S  UO. 

AlOHAMMED  AND  MOHAMMEDANISM:  Lectures  Delivered  at  the  Royal 
Institutiou  of  Great  Britain  in  February  and  March,  1S74.  By  R.  Boswoktu 
Smitu,  M.A.,  Assistant  Master  in  Harrow  School ;  late  Fellow  of  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Oxford.  With  au  Appendix  containing  Emanuel  Deutsch's  Article  on 
'•Islam."    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

MOSHEIM'S  ECCLESIASTICAL  HISTORY,  Ancient  and  Modern ;  in  which  the 
Rise,  Progress,  and  Variation  of  Church  Power  are  considered  in  their  Con- 
nection with  the  State  of  Learning  aud  Philosophy,  aud  the  Political  History 
of  Europe  during  that  Period.  Translated,  with  Notes,  &c.,  by  A.  Maolaink, 
D.B.  A  new  Edition,  continued  to  1S26,  by  C.  Cootk,  LL.D.  2  vols.,  Syo, 
Cloth,  $4  00. 

MOTLEY'S  DUTCH  REPUBLIC.  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic.  A  History. 
By  JouN  LoTnitop  Motley,  LL.D.,  D.C.L.  With  a  Portrait  of  William  of 
Orange.     3  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $10  50. 

MOTLEY'S  UNITED  NETHERLANDS.  History  of  the  United  Netherlands: 
from  the  Death  of  William  the  Silent  to  the  Twelve  Years'  Truce— 1G09. 
With  a  full  View  of  the  English -Dutch  Struggle  against  Spain,  and  of  the 
Oriiriu  and  Destruction  of  the  Spanish  Armada.  By  Joun  Lotuuop  Motley, 
LL.~D.,  D.C.L.    Portraits.    4  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $14  00. 

MOTLEY'S  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OP  JOHN  OP  BARNEVELD.  The  Life  and 
Death  of  John  of  Barneveld,  Advocate  of  Holland  ;  with  a  View  of  the  Prima- 
ry Causes  and  Movements  of  "The  Thirt3--vears'  War."  By  Joun  Lotueop 
MoTLEV,  LL.D., D.C.L.    Illustrated.    lu  2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

MYERS'S  REMAINS  OP  LOST  EMPIRES.  Remains  of  Lost  Empires :  Sketches 
of  the  Ruins  of  Palmyra,  Nineveh,  Babylon,  and  Persepolis,  with  some  Notes 
on  India  and  the  Cashmeriau  Himalayas.  By  P.  V.  N.  Myeks.  Illustrated. 
Svo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 

NORDHOFF'S  COMMUNISTIC  SOCIETIES  OP  THE  UNITED  STATES. 
The  Communistic  Societies  of  the  LTnited  States,  from  Personal  Visit  and  Ob- 
servation ;  including  Detailed  Accounts  of  the  Economists,  Zoarites,  Shakers, 
the  Amaua,  Oneida,  Bethel,  Aurora,  Icarian,  and  other  existing  Societies. 
With  Particulars  of  their  Religious  Creeds  aud  Practices,  their  Social  Theories 
and  Life,  Numbers,  Industries,  and  Present  Ccnidition.  By  Cuarles  Nouduoff. 
Illustrations.    Svo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

RAWLINSON'S  MANUAL  OP  ANCIENT  HISTORY.  A  Manual  of  Ancient 
History,  from  the  Earliest  Times  to  the  Fall  of  the  Western  Empire.  Com- 
prising the  History  of  Chaklsea,  As.syria,  Media,  Babylonia,  Lydia,  Phoenicia, 
Syria,  Judaea,  Egypt,  Carthaire,  Persia,  Greece,  Macedonia,  Parlhia,  and  Rome. 
By  George  Rawi.inson,  M.'A.,  Camden  Professor  of  Ancient  History  in  the 
University  of  Oxford.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

RECLUS'S  EARTH.  The  Earth  :  n  Descriptive  History  of  the  Phenomena  of  the 
Life  of  the  Globe.  By  £i.isei!  Reci.cs.  With  234  Maps  and  Illustrations,  and 
23  Page  Maps  printed  in  Colors.    Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

RECLUS'S  OCEAN.  The  Ocean,  Atmosphere,  and  Life.  Being  the  Second  Series 
of  a  Descriptive  History  of  the  Life  of  the  Globe.  By  fii/isEE  Rkoi.us.  Pro- 
fusely Illustrated  with  250  Maps  or  Figures,  aud  27  Maps  printed  in  Colors. 
Svo,  Cloth,  $G  00. 

SCHWEINFURTirS  HEART  OP  AFRICA.  The  Heart  of  Africa.  Three  Years' 
Travels  and  Adventures  in  the  Unexplored  Regions  of  the  Centre  of  Africa. 
From  1868  to  1S71.  By  Dr.  Georo  Souweinfurtu.  Translated  by  Ef.t.en  E. 
Frewer.  With  an  Introduction  by  Winwooh  Reat>e.  Illustrated  by  about 
130  Woodcuts  from  Drawings  made  by  the  Author,  and  with  two  Maps.  2  vols., 
Svo,  Cloth,  $8  00. 

SHAKSPEARE.  The  Dramatic  Works  of  William  Shakspeare.  With  Correc- 
tions and  Notes.  Engravings.  6  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $9  00.  2  vols.,  Svo, 
Cloth,  II  00. 


6      I  'aluabli  and  InUresting  Works  for  Public  and  Private  Libraries. 

SMir.ES'S  msTOUY  OF  THE  HUOUENOTS.      The  lln^'ucnnt^ :   their  Pettle- 

ineiilg,  1'hnrt.hff,  mill  Iii(liistrii'.-<  in  Kiiu'hiiul  ami  Irclaiiil.  My  Samuki.  Smiles. 
With  III!  Appeudix  rcljiliiig  to  the  llu^uuiioiu  iu  Aiiicricii.  Crowu  bvo,  C'luih, 
$•-'  00. 

SMILESS  IirGUENOTS  AFTER  THE  REVOCATION.  The  Ilii-rneiiots  in 
France  afler  the  Kevocatiwii  of  the  Edict  of  Names;  with  n  Vicit  to  tbo 
Country  of  the  Vaiulois'.     liy  Samlki.  S.mii.i:!<.    Crowii  bvo,  Cloth,  %'l  00. 

S.MII.ES'S  LIFE  OF  THE  STEPIIENSONS.  The  Life  of  George  Stephenson, 
and  of  his  Son,  Robert  Stepht-nson  ;  conipii>in;;,  nlsio,  n  Ilictory  of  the  In- 
vention and  Introduction  of  the  Railway  Locomotive.  I!v  Kami'el  Smilkb. 
With  Steel  Portraits  and  niiinerous  lllustratiou!<.    bvo,  Cloili,  f3  (ki. 

STRICKLAND'S  (Mish)  (^rEENS  OF  SCOTL.^ND.  Live«  of  the  Queens  of 
Scotland  and  Knjjlish  Princesses  conuected  with  the  Rejjal  Siicceeelon  of 
Great  Britain.    By  Aonkb  SruioKLANU.    S  vols.,  12dio,  Cloth,  $12  00. 

TUE  STUDENTS  SERIES.    With  Maps  and  Illustrations.     12mo.  Clotb,  |2  00 
per  volume. 
Fbanok. — GiiiiioK. — GiiKEOF.. — IlrMK. — Romp  (by  Lihhei.i.V — Oi.t)  Tfstament 

lllSTOUV. — NkW  TKhTAMKNT  lllI^TOKV. — StIIIOK  I.  A  Mi'b  QtFKNS  OK  Estil.ANIt 

(Al)ridi,'ed). — A.noibnt  IIibtokv  ok  the  Eaht. — IIai.i.am'h  Middle  A(iF.8. 

— IIalla.m'b  Constitutional  History  ok  ICnoi.and LvEr.L's  Elements 

OF  Gkoi.oov. — Meuivai.e'b  Gknebal  IIibtokv  ok  Rome. — Cox's  Genebal 
lIisTOBY  OK  Gbeeok. — Classioal  Diotionaev. 

TENNYSON'S  COMPLETE  POEMS.  The  Poetical  Works  of  Alfred  Tennyson, 
Poet  Laureate.  With  uumeroiis  Illustrations  by  Einiiieut  Artists,  and  Three 
Characteristic  Portraits.     Svo,  Pai)er,  $1  00;   Cloth,  $1  50. 

THOMSON'S  LAND  AND  THE  BOOK.  The  Land  and  the  Book;  or,  Biblical 
Illustrations  drawn  from  the  Manners  and  Customs,  the  Scenes  and  the  Scen- 
ery of  the  Holy  Laud.  By  W.  M.  Thomson,  D.D.,  Twenty-five  Years  a  Mis- 
sionary of  the  A.B.C.F.M.  in  Syria  and  Palestine.  With  two  elaborate  Maps 
of  Palestine,  an  accurate  Plan  of  Jerusalem,  and  several  hundred  Engravings, 
representing  the  Scenery,  Topography,  and  Productions  of  the  Holy  Land, 
and  the  Costumes,  Manners,  and  Ilub'its  of  the  People.  2  vols.,  12m(),  Cloth, 
$5  00. 

VAN-LENNEP'S  BIBLE  LANDS.  Bible  Lands:  their  Modern  Customs  and 
Manners  Illustrative  of  Scripture.  By  the  Rev.  llENnv  J.  Van-Lennei-,  D.D. 
Illustrated  with  upward  of  .S60  WooJl  Engravinirs  and  two  Colored  Maps. 
83S  pp., Svo,  Cloth,  $5  OO ;  Sheep,  $0  00 ;  Half  Morocco,  *S  00. 

VINCENT'S  LAND  OF  THE  WHITE  ELEPHANT.  The  Land  of  the  White 
Elephant:  Sights  and  Scenes  in  SouIliCMStcrn  Asia.  A  Personal  Narrative 
of  Travel  and  Adventure  in  Farther  India,  embracing  the  Countries  of  Bur- 
ma, Siam,  Cambodia,  and  Cochin  -  China  <lSTl-2).  By  Fuank  Vinoe.nt,  Jr. 
Illustrated  with  Maps,  Plans,  and  Woodcuts.    Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $3  &o. 

WALLACE'S  GEOGRAPHICAL  DISTRIBUTION  C)F  ANIMALS.  The  Geo- 
graphical  Distribulion  of  Animals.  Willi  a  Siudy  of  the  Relations  of  Living 
and  Extinct  F"auiias  as  Elucidating  tbo  Past  CliaiiL'es  of  the  Earth's  Surface. 
Bv  .Vlkrf.d  Rlbskl  Wallace.  With  Maps  and  Illiistratioue.  In  2  vols.,  6vo, 
Cfolh,  $10  00. 

WALLACES  MALAY  ARCniPELAGO.  The  Malay  Arcbipelngn:  the  Land  of 
the  f)ran^-Utan  and  the  I?ird  of  Paradise.  A  Narrative  of  Travel,  1*>.%4-1 '^02. 
With  Studies  of  Man  and  Nature.  By  Alfred  Russel  Wallace,  With  Ten 
Jlaps  and  Fifty-one  Elegant  Illustrations.     Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  60. 

WHITE'S  MASSACRE  OF  ST.  BARTnOLO.MEW\  The  Massacre  of  St.  Bar- 
tholomew: Preceded  by  a  History  of  the  Religions  Wars  in  the  Reign  of 
Charles  IX.  By  Ueney White,  M.A.  With  Illustrations.  Crown  Svo,  Cloth, 
$1  7.5. 

WOODS  nOMES  WITHOUT  ITA^JDS.  Homes  Without  Ilands :  being  n  Descrip- 
tion of  the  Habitations  of  .Vnimals,  classed  according  to  their  Principle  of  Con- 
struction.    By  J.  G.  Wood,  .M.A.,  P\L.S.     Illustrated.    Svo,  Cloth,  $4  50. 

YONGE'S  LIFE  OF  MARIE  ANTOINETTE.  The. Life  of  Marie  Antoinette, 
Oiieen  of  France.  By  CiiAin.r.s  Dckk  Yonof,  Begins  Profesaor  of  Modern 
Ilisforv  and  Enu'lisb  Literature  in  Queen's  College,  Belf.ist.  With  Portrait. 
Crown  Svi>,  Cloth,  %l  60. 


Valuable  and  Interesting  Works  far  Public  and  Private  Libraries.      7 

TYEKMAN'S  WESLEY.  The  Life  nnd  Times  of  the  Rev.  John  Wesley,  M.A., 
Fouiuier  of  the  Methodists.  By  tlie  Kev.  Luke  Tykjiman.  Portiaits.  3  vols., 
8v(),  Cloth,  $7  50. 

TYEKMAN'S  OXFORD  METHODISTS.  The  O.xford  Methodists:  Memoirs  Af 
the  Rev.  Messrs.  Clayton,  Iiiiihaiii,  Gambold,  Hervey,  and  Broughton,  with 
Biographical  Notices  of  others.  By  the  Kev.  L.  Tykkman.  With  Portraits. 
8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

VAMB£RY'"S  CENTRAL  ASIA.  Travels  in  Central  Asia.  Being  the  Account 
of  ii  Journey  from  Tehereu  across  the  Turkoman  Desert,  on  the  Eastern 
Shore  of  the  Caspian,  to  Khiva,  Bokhara,  and  Samarcand,  performed  in  the 
Year  1S63.  By  Abminius  Va.muerv,  Member  of  the  Hungarian  Academy  of 
Pesth,  by  whom  he  was  sent  on  this  Scientific  Mission.  With  Map  and 
Woodcuts.    8vo,  Cloth,  $4  50. 

POETS  OF  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY.  The  Poets  of  the  Nineteenth 
Century.  Selected  and  Edited  by  the  Rev.  Robkrt  Aris  Wilt.mott.  With 
English  and  American  Additions,  arranged  by  Evkrt  A.  Ddyokinok,  Editor 
of  "Cyclopaedia  of  American  Literature."  Comprising  Selections  from  the 
Greatest  Authors  of  the  Age.  Superbly  Illustrated  with  141  Engravings  from 
Designs  by  the  most  Eminent  Artists.  In  Elegant  small  4to  form,  printed  on 
Superfine  "Tinted  Paper,  riclily  bound  in  extra  Cloth,  Beveled,  Gill  Edges, 
$5  00;  Half  Calf,  $5  50 ;  Full  Turkey  Morocco,  $9  00. 

THE  REVISION  OF  THE  ENGLISH  VERSION  OF  THE  NEW  TESTAMENT. 
With  an  Introduction  by  the  Rev.  P.  Scuaff,  D.D.    618  jip.,  Crown  Svo,  Cloth, 
$3  00. 
This  work  embraces  in  one  volume : 

I.  ON  A  FRESH  REVISION  OF  THE  ENGLISH  NEW  TESTAMENT.  By 
J.  B.  LiGUTFOoT,  D.D.,  Canon  of  St.  Paul's,  and  Hulseu  Professor  of  Divini- 
ty, Cambridge.    Second  Edition,  Revised.    11*6  pp. 

II.  ON  THE  AUTHORIZED  VERSION  OF  THE  NEW  TESTAMENT  in  Con- 
nection with  some  Recent  Proposals  for  its  Revision.  By  Riouabu  Cue- 
NEVix  Tremcu,  D.D.,  Archbishop  of  Dublin.    194  pp. 

III.  CONSIDERATIONS  ON  THE  REVISION  OF  THE  ENGLISH  VERSION 
OF  THE  NEW  TESTAMENT.  By  C.  J.  Ellioott,  D.D.,  Bishop  of 
Gloucester  and  Bristol.    ITS  pp. 

DRAKES  NOOKS  AND  CORNERS  OF  THE  NEW  ENGLAND  COAST.  Nooks 
and  Corners  of  the  New  England  Coast.  By  Samuei,  Adamb  Drakk,  Author 
of  "Old  Landmarks  of  Boston,"  "Historic  Fields  and  Mansions  of  Middlesex," 
&c.    Illustrated.    Svo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 

NORDIIOFF'S  CALIFORNIA.  California  :  for  Health,  Pleasure,  and  Residence. 
A  Book  for  Travellers  and  Settlers.    Illustrated.    Svo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

NORDHOFF'S  NORTHERN  CALIFORNIA,  OREGON,  AND  THE  SANDWICH 
ISLANDS.  Northern  California,  Oregon,  and  the  Sandwich  Islands.  By 
CuARLF.s  NoEDUOFF.    Illustrated.    8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

THE  DESERT  OF  THE  EXODUS.  Journeys  on  Foot  in  the  Wilderness  of  the 
Forty  Y'ears'  Wanderings;  undertaken  in  connection  with  the  Ordnance 
Survey  of  Sinai  and  the  Palestine  Exploration  Fund.  By  E.  H.  Palmer,  M.A., 
Lord  Almoner's  Professor  of  Arabic,  and  Fellow  of  St.John's  College,  Cam- 
bridge. With  Maps  and  numerous  Illustrations  from  Photographs  and  Draw- 
ings taken  on  the  spot  by  the  Sinai  Survey  Expedition  and  C.  F.  Tyrwhitt 
Drake.    Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

EARTH'S  NORTH  AND  CENTRAL  AFRICA.  Travels  and  Discoveries  in  North 
and  Central  Afiica:  being  a  Journal  of  an  Expedition  undertaken  under  the 
Auspices  of  H.B.M.'s  Government,  in  the  Years  1S49-1S55.  By  Henry  Bakth, 
Ph.D.,  D.C.L.    Illustrated.    3  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $12  00. 

LY'MAN  BEECHER'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY,  &c.  Autobiography,  Correspond- 
ence, Ac,  of  Lyman  Beecher,  D.D.  Edited  by  his  Son,  Charles  Befouer. 
With  Three  Steel  Portraits,  and  Engravings  on  Wood.  2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth, 
$5  00.  . 


Harper's  Catalogue. 


The  attention  of  gentlemen,  in  town  or  country,  designing  to  form  Libra 
ries  or  enrich  their  Literary  Collections,  is  respectfully  invited  to  Harper's 
Catalogue,  which  will  be  found  to  comprise  a  large  proportion  of  the  stand- 
ard and  most  esteemed  works  in  English  and  Classical  Literature — COM- 
rREHENDiNG  OVER  THREE  THOUSAND  VOLUMES — which  are  offered,  in  most 
instances,  at  less  than  one-half  the  cost  of  similar  productions  in  England. 

To  Librarians  and  others  connected  with  Colleges,  Schools,  &c.,  who  may 
not  have  access  to  a  trustworthy  guide  in  forming  the  true  estimate  of  liter- 
ary productions,  it  is  believed  this  Catalogue  will  prove  especially  valuable 
for  reference. 

To  prevent  disappointment,  it  is  suggested  that,  whenever  books  can  not 
be  obtained  through  any  bookseller  or  local  agent,  applications  with  remit- 
tance should  be  addressed  direct  to  Harper  &  Brothers,  which  will  receive 
prompt  attention. 

SeiU  hy  mail  on  receipt  of  Ten  Cents. 

Address  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

Franklin  Squarf,  Nev/  York, 


1 


>%nfK. 


